


Blood

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canonverse with extra magic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blood, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Protective Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Slow Build, Steve has a mouth on him, Warning for frequent appearance of blood, salty language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where magic is as commonplace as electricity, HYDRA worships a god who craves order through death. They used His blood to create fierce Soldiers then enslaved them by chaining their souls. </p><p>The man who was James Barnes is the last Soldier, the rest having been put down after succumbing to the call of the Blood. One night, out of control after a mission, the increasingly unstable Soldier runs into Steve Rogers. Instead of being turned into a red smear on the ground, Steve successfully talks him down. HYDRA decides to keep him. The Soldier's the last one they've got; if Steve can keep him calm he's going to do it whether he likes it or not. </p><p>Like fractious racehorses have companion goats, they hand Steve off to the Soldier as a kind of pet. But studies have shown pets can ease depression, despair and loneliness, lead to an increased sense of safety and well-being, and provide a source of protection and unconditional love. HYDRA really should have reviewed the literature before they decided to give Steve to the Soldier. Especially since, once Steve Rogers is involved, protectiveness can get slightly out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If you've haven't read _[If Wishing Made It So](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6652381)_ (my Bucky is a genie fic), you can skip this note. If you have, please keep reading. You might notice some, let's call them...distinct thematic similarities between this and Wishing. When I wrote Wishing, I'd worked out an alternate ending: Bucky strikes a deal with Pierce—Steve repudiates him, Pierce summons him, and Bucky gives cooperation instead of bare obedience in exchange for Steve's life, which puts them both in HYDRA's hands until A Thing Happens. 
> 
> After having it rattle around in my brain for all these months I realised I wanted to do something with it. This is that something, so in a way this is kind of an AU of _If Wishing Made it So_. Which is why any similarities you notice are not coincidental. I'm not sure it's quite _de rigueur_ to write an AU of the alternate ending of your AU, but here we are.

Under ancient trees that stretched to the star-studded sky a bare chested warrior knelt in the snow. A red-eyed cleric pressed a hand to the warrior's chest. In his other hand the cleric held a glass vial. The full moon cast strange, rippling shadows on the snow, shadows that seemed obedient to something other than the moon's light as they twisted their long fingers towards the distant farming village.

"Hail HYDRA," the warrior whispered, eyes wide with awe.

"Hail HYDRA." The priest crushed the vial against the warrior's chest, pressing the Blood of their god _through_ his skin. Quickly he backed away, fading into the shadows, veiled by a spell.

For several minutes the warrior's harsh guttural gasps filled the night, then he stilled. His breathing calmed. He rose to his feet and ran smoothly towards the village.

The screams started soon after. They didn't take long to end.

 

*      *      *

 

HYDRA's god wanted order. Life was the embodiment of chaos and so He desired it through death. His Blood was given to HYDRA's chosen. It made them strong, fast, hard to kill, healed their wounds. In the Blood they found peace, would kill until they were cut down.

Inevitably they came, hundreds of men on horseback, warring peoples following warring gods, uniting to wipe HYDRA and their god of order and death from the face of the earth.

The battle was long and bloody. Almost, they succeeded. They _believed_ they succeeded.

Cut off one head and two more shall take its place.

HYDRA survived. In the dark, secret places of the world, HYDRA survived, with the Blood of their god and their clerics and their faith. No longer able to indulge their god's demand for slaughter, they had to find a new way to seek order.

But they survived. Even when other cults died out, fell victim to the modern age in which gods were disdained and magic was just another tool, HYDRA adapted. They resurfaced, failed, were driven under once more.

But HYDRA adapted.

HYDRA survived.

 

* * *

 

The pain was distant. There was only the cold. The ice. His blood was escaping, trickling out beautiful and bright across the snow. Bucky turned his head and years passed. Bone greeted him. It had escaped from his skin, venturing out to keep him company while they waited for death.

That was nice. It was good not to wait alone and death should be here soon.

Boots filled his vision. Confusion tangled with the cold and the shocks of pain that reached him through the ice. Death didn't wear boots.

Rough hands were grabbing at him. Someone jostled the bone sticking out of his shoulder and he screamed. The mountains echoed it back, mocking him. He was being dragged through the snow. He tried to struggle, but his body wasn't listening to him. It was only listening to the Boots hauling him away. Hauling him away from his spot in the snow.

They couldn't take him away. How was death going to find him?

The Boots heaved him onto a table. His blood dripped onto the floor. Bright lights blinded him. A woman with red eyes leaned over his body and Bucky thought she might be death, finally come to take him.

Until she stripped his shirt off and pressed her hand against his chest and it _burned_. Until she broke a glass vial of red over his heart and pushed it _through_ his skin and he screamed. Screamed until his throat was broken and no noise came out, screamed until the red liquid she'd pushed through his skin rose up and answered him, offering him peace. All he had to do was kill. He was too weak to fight it.

Strength flooded the path carved by the Blood. He was calm, a perfect singing void of silence as he ascended into the Blood, answering its call. There were beating hearts all around him. He lunged from the table towards the closest. The peace of the kill flooded him as people fell and their hearts stopped. His eyes were cold, his face empty, and blood no longer flowed from his tattered jagged shoulder.

"I guess it still works," a shaky, elated, _terrified_ voice spoke from behind the observation window.

"Bind him. Bind him now before he kills us all."

He stepped over the bodies, eyes fixed on the woman who'd pushed the Blood into his skin, who'd given him this perfect peace. She raised her hands, fingers twisted to paint an elaborate sigil in the air, and pain wracked his body.

It didn't stop him.

A burst of electricity drove him, stunned, to his knees. There were hands on him, a needle slid into his skin to send cold shivering through his veins. His muscles went slack. A hand latched onto the back of his neck and seconds later something punched into his _soul_. A harsh voice ground out, "You will obey. You will serve the goals of HYDRA. You will not interfere with those goals. You belong to us. You will kill for us. Do you understand?"

The man who had been James Buchanan Barnes, who had fallen from a mountain to be infected with the Blood of HYDRA's god and Bound, his soul chained and forced into HYDRA's service, said, "Yes."

 

* * *

 

HYDRA had rediscovered the cache of the Blood deep in the mountains. Everyone knew the legends of their history. No one had known if the Blood was real. Or, if it was real, if it would still work. Finding the man in the snow was like a literal gift from their god. 

The Blood was real. The Blood worked. He became the first of their perfect killers, their perfect Soldiers. Bound to obedience with a soul-chain, his missing arm replaced with an elegant construct of gleaming metal, he was sent out in the world to serve HYDRA's will.

There were four more vials of Blood, so there were four more Soldiers. Each one Bound as the first was Bound.

With each Soldier there was a danger. Even Bound, the call of the Blood could overwhelm them. To be HYDRA's perfect Soldiers they had to use the Blood, but in the moment of the kill it was easy for them to ascend completely, to give in to the Blood's call. When that happened, all the Soldiers craved was the kill. No one was safe but the one who'd Bound them.

Even put into magically induced stasis when they weren't needed, gradually they all became unstable, all succumbed to the Blood. All had to be put down.

All but one. All but the first. Eventually, he was the only one left.

 

* * *

 

The Blood and the soul-chain between them burned everything away. They didn't leave a person behind. Or they weren't supposed to, but the first Soldier remembered something. He remembered that the person he once was had been called James Buchanan Barnes. He remembered that the person he once was had been called Bucky.

They were just words. He didn't know what they meant. They weren't a name. Names meant something.  But he hung onto them as an act of defiance when everything else was taken from him. He kept hanging onto them even when he forgot why he'd been fighting so hard to keep them. And when he wasn't the Soldier and he wasn't the singing silence of the Blood he was those words. He didn't know why, he didn't know who they were, except that they weren't the Soldier and they weren't the Blood; they were the one tiny part of himself that didn't belong to HYDRA.

Gradually, he lost the words. Lost Barnes. Lost Buchanan. Lost James.

He held onto Bucky. Clung to it with a fierce, wild desperation, even in its meaninglessness.

When the rest of the Soldiers went wild, when they all surrendered to the peace of the Blood and he was sent to kill them, one after the other until he was the only one left, he wondered. He wondered if he survived because he had that single word. Wondered if he survived because, even though he didn't know what it meant, even though it was a word as hollow and empty as he'd become, he could think of himself as _Bucky_.

 

* * *

 

"Wake up." He didn't recognise the voice but he woke up. "HYDRA needs you. Open your eyes." Bucky opened his eyes. There was a man looking down at him. The amulet was in his bloody hand. He must be Bucky's new handler, must have used the soul-chain to Bind him while he slept. Bucky wondered if the last one had died or if this man had killed him.

"Get up." Bucky got up. "I have work for you to do. HYDRA is going to shape this century and I need you to do your job." Bucky looked at him blankly. "Do whatever you need to do to get yourself ready. I need you in fighting shape." He paused. "Do you have any questions?"

Bucky had to swallow several times before he could speak. It was always hard when he was first woken. "What should I call you?"

"Pierce. Call me Pierce."

 

* * *

 

The work Pierce had for him took him all over the world. Targeted assassinations of specific people. Seemingly random kills, made to look like mob violence. Accidents that, as ordered, no one could ever believe were accidents. Accidents that no one would believe were anything _but_ accidents.

So many dead. He was very good at his job. But it was getting harder to come back.

Ascending through the Blood to the Soldier, where the killing was clean and precise, was easy. Too easy. It was hard to stop himself from ascending higher, from reaching the place of peace where the Blood was all, where the kill was all, where everything was quiet and calm.

He fought. He kept fighting. He didn't want to kill anyone. He didn't want to kill HYDRA's targets. He didn't want to succumb to the Blood and slaughter whoever got in his way.

Each kill it got harder. Sometimes he lost the fight and then the teams they sent out with him would tranq him, net him, shock him.

Electricity was one of the few things that could keep him down. They'd keep shocking him until he snapped out of it. Sometimes he'd bite through his tongue, break his cheekbones, his jaw, from the convulsions, but eventually he'd come back.

He knew he was starting to become unstable, just like the others. It was becoming harder and harder to find his way back to Bucky when _Bucky_ was just five random letters that meant nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a shit job. It was a shit shift at a shit job. Steve was alone apart from the two kids, and they shouldn't put kids on the night shift, but the owner of the crappy fast food joint didn't give a damn it meant they'd be trying to get home on their own at ass o'clock in the morning.

They weren't actually kids, they were both seventeen, but to Steve they seemed like kids.

Every night, after they closed up and cleaned up and Steve set the wards against burglary and fire— _those_ wards the owner would pay for, when he wouldn't spring for charms against his employees getting burned or the food spoiling, because the owner was, in the words of one of the kids, _A total dick_ —Steve walked them to their bus stop. He'd wait with them, see them safely onto their bus, even though they'd roll their eyes and tell him he didn't have to, call him Mr Rogers while he jokingly told them to shut up. It meant he didn't get to his bus stop until after three thirty, since it was clear in the other direction, didn't get home until almost five.

But what was he supposed to do? Technically he was in charge of them, so they were his responsibility.

His life wasn't supposed to be like this. Steve pulled his jacket tighter as he walked down the sidewalk, projecting a _don't fuck with me_ attitude since he knew his protection wards weren't going to do shit. They'd been cheap to start with and he couldn't afford to have them renewed. He'd only run into trouble a few times, most muggers having given up and gone home by this hour of the morning. Or maybe it was his faint scent of lingering grease that kept them away.

His life wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be an artist. Steve scowled and kicked a rock, sending it skittering into the grass as he turned into the park. He was a damned good artist, damned talented, and he didn't give a shit if he sounded arrogant inside his own head. It was true. There was a clanking noise as his foot hit a bottle and he pulled it back, intending to kick the bottle, send it flying into the trees, then he sighed and scooped it up, took a quick detour to toss it into the nearby trash can.

Soft footsteps behind him, barely heard, made him whirl around, harsh words like weapons on his tongue, shoulders squared and fists at the ready. He froze, staring. The man behind him was like nothing he'd expected, like nothing he'd ever seen.

His eyes were cold, long hair half over his face. He was dressed in black leather, most of it straps, and there were guns strapped to his waist, knives to his thighs. All that faded into background noise in the face of his _metal arm_ , gleaming silver plates shifting impatiently, a blood red star emblazoned near the shoulder. 

Steve's eyes drifted up from the man's arm to his eyes and stuck there. The few times Steve had run into trouble, muggers after money, bored packs of teenagers looking for entertainment, their eyes had seen him—as a victim, as someone weak they could turn into a moment's relief from boredom, but Steve knew they'd _seen_ him.

There was nothing like recognition in this man's eyes, even though they were locked onto him like a target. He was bearing down on Steve like a tank, but his eyes were empty. Every instinct Steve had was screaming at him to stand still. Not to run and not to fight, when his first reaction was _always_ to fight.

For once, he listened. He held still, let his hands fall to his sides, forced himself not to react, kept his body open and non-aggressive.

His instincts seemed to be right. The man stopped, staring at Steve, body curved like it was puzzled. Like it couldn't understand his reaction. Steve's heartbeat kicked up, but he stayed calm. "Hi," he said softly, like he was talking to a stray dog, one that was ready to bite. "It's okay."

Hands lashed out and grabbed him by the upper arms. He couldn't help flinching, because the grip was like iron. He knew he was going to bruise, but surprisingly that was it. He'd expected the metal hand to crack bone.

"It's okay," he said again, soothing and low. "You're okay. I'm Steve. I'm not going to hurt you." Hysterical laughter wanted to bubble up the back of his throat, because as if he _could_. This guy was nearly six foot of solid muscle and Steve—short and skinny and not-sickly only thanks to magical intervention at an early age—was exactly none of those things.

Steve was pretty sure this guy could break him in half and was worried he might do just that.

"You're okay." The fingers around his arms flexed. Steve hoped that meant he was listening. He kept talking, a soothing litany of words, he wasn't even sure they made sense, just kept talking, kept watching the guy's eyes.

The hands around his arms eased slightly, but not enough he could pull away. Even if he could have, Steve didn't think he would have tried. This moment felt precarious. Like if he made the wrong move, if he breathed wrong, it would all come crashing down and take Steve with it.

Between one moment and the next, as Steve repeated, "You're okay. It's okay, I'm Steve, I won't hurt you, you're safe, you're okay," the guy dragged in a deep, harsh breath. His eyes went wide, like he was seeing Steve for the first time. His fingers tightened convulsively. Steve winced.

Immediately, his grip loosened.

He still didn't let go.

 

*      *      *

 

Bucky fought his way up from under the Blood to find his hands wrapped around the thin arms of a man who barely came past his nose. A man who was speaking to him in a low, soothing, kind voice. A gentle voice. Who was saying it was okay, that he was safe, that he wouldn't hurt him. Who said his name was Steve.

Steve who should, by all rights, be dead.

The words were lies. Bucky knew they were lies. There was no safety. It was never okay. But his voice was kind and gentle, something entirely unfamiliar.  

The voice had saved Steve. It had let Bucky fight his way back from under the Blood. And he'd repaid Steve by hurting him. Bucky loosened his grip as much as he could.

"Are you back?" Steve asked, tone less gentle but it was still kind.

Bucky didn't know how to answer him, so he said nothing.

"You need to let go of me." Steve's voice was becoming firm; not cruel, just very definite. "Now."

More than anything, Bucky wanted to obey. He tried. He looked at his hands and ordered them to open. Ordered his fingers to spread wide and let Steve go. They refused. Steve had seen him, had seen his metal arm and his face. He couldn't be allowed to leave.

Couldn't be allowed to live.

Allowing Steve to walk around in the world knowing about the Soldier could be a danger to HYDRA. That meant he should kill Steve. He should kill him now. Horror slipped through him, along with the faint wish that Steve had never started talking to him in that kind, gentle voice.

"Let me go," Steve demanded. He tried to pry Bucky's right hand from his arm, tried to force Bucky's hand to open. It didn't work. Bucky fought the urge that said move your hand to his neck, snap it. Do it now. You have to kill him. He's a threat to HYDRA.

Before he could act, the sound of running booted feet filled the air. It was the team he'd evaded when the Blood had taken over.

"What the fuck?" It was the Team Leader, Taylor. "Soldier, stand down."

Bucky released one of Steve's arms, keeping a firm grip with his metal hand on the other. Steve immediately tried to bolt but came up short, rebounding off Bucky's grip. He kept trying to pull away. "Is he yours?" he called to Taylor. "Because I think he's broken."

"How is he not a red smear on the ground?" Taylor asked the air, ignoring Steve.

"Beats the fuck out of me. I thought we'd have to shock the shit out of him," one of the others said. "But look at him. Calm, following orders. Not turning short and skinny into spare parts."

Steve growled under his breath at the short and skinny remark, then went still as he understood this wasn't a rescue. Taylor slowly approached them. "Soldier, are you with us?"

"Yes."

"Why is he still alive?"

"He talked to me." He didn't need to add the details, that Steve had spoken in a kind voice, that it had reached him through the Blood, had pulled him back.

"He talked to you." Taylor switched his attention to Steve. "You talked to him." Steve's chin came up and he stared Taylor down and didn't answer. Taylor's eyes narrowed. "Answer the question." Bucky, knowing what happened when Taylor was angry, squeezed Steve's arm. Steve's eyes flicked to Bucky's then back to Taylor's.

"Yes, I _talked_ to him," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Huh." He hadn't missed any of it, not Bucky squeezing Steve's arm, not Steve's reaction. He ignored the sarcasm. "You're coming with us."

"No I'm fucking not," Steve said, throwing himself against Bucky's grip. He hissed at Bucky to let him go, twisting and pulling with all his strength until Bucky was afraid he'd hurt himself.

"Not like you have a choice," one of the team called, laughing at Steve's attempts to free himself.

Taylor looked thoughtful. "No," he said seriously and drew his gun. Steve froze. Some long ago forgotten part of Bucky wanted to step in front of him, the impulse a whisper there and gone, like an echo in an ancient canyon, drowned under the white noise of service to HYDRA. "You talked down the Soldier. That deserves a choice. You can come with us or I'll shoot you right here. I'll make it quick, it'll only hurt for a second, but if you don't come with us, this is where your life ends." 

Steve didn't move, didn't speak, eyes locked on Taylor, like the gun didn't exist.

"Thirty seconds or I'll choose for you. And I'll be making the permanent choice."

"If those are my choices?" Even Bucky knew this wasn't a choice, but Steve's voice was strong and certain, it didn't shake or quaver, could have been carved from pure granite when he said, "Guess I'll come with you."

"Right. Soldier, bring him." Bucky didn't have to exert any pressure to make Steve follow him. Steve walked by his side, Bucky's hand wrapped around his arm. When they reached the nondescript beige van and climbed in, Bucky let Steve go. The team gave him a wide berth like they always did. Bucky sat on the floor in the middle of the van while the team spread themselves on the seats around the sides.

Steve, with a brief, narrow-eyed look around the van's interior—nostrils flaring with contempt as his gaze passed over Taylor—sat on the floor next to Bucky.

 

* * *

 

It was a long drive to reach the HYDRA compound, far on the outskirts of even the city's outskirts. It had, at one point, been an armoury for the National Guard, constructed—for some reason which had no doubt seemed sound at the time—to resemble a very practical castle. The questionable design choice made it highly defensible and its purchase by a shipping company made it entirely natural that people and vehicles should be coming and going from it at all times of the day and night.

Not that anyone should ever notice.

HYDRA's clerics had it shielded from observation both magic and mundane, ensuring even satellites would see something slightly different from what was actually happening. It was amazing what they could achieve with the blood-fuelled power of an ancient god to draw on.

The compound used all six floors of the original building and stretched down below the earth for seven levels more. Bucky's room was located on the lowest level. It had been his since he'd been woken from sleep already Bound to Pierce.

The Soldier didn't need windows or sunlight, they reasoned, or the comforts real people required to keep from going mad. And if he became entirely unstable, gave in completely to the Blood and became a rampaging killer no one could stop, they could block off the bottom level, fill it with cement and forget about him, one more of HYDRA's buried secrets.

Taylor had sufficient authority to push Steve's presence through on a temporary basis, especially after he explained that Steve has talked down the Soldier. There was only one person who could authorise his permanent presence—and his continued existence as a living person—and he wasn't currently available, so for the moment Steve was to be left in the custody of the Soldier. If the Soldier killed him, no great loss. If the Soldier did anything else to him, also no great loss.

These discussions happened in Steve's presence. It left him with no illusions—he was basically a dead man walking.  The Soldier, and Steve didn't understand what sort of name that was for someone, however accurate it might be, stood beside him, holding his arm. He reacted to nothing.

The Soldier was taken away by the man who'd given Steve his 'choice', and fuck him, Steve thought. A choice where one of the options is get shot isn't a choice. He was doing everything he could to stay angry, to stay furious, because if he didn't, he knew the fear he was fighting back was going to slam into him and he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

When the Soldier was brought back he was wearing normal clothes, jeans and a shirt, but it didn't make him look less inhuman. Didn't make him less obedient when he wrapped his hand around Steve's arm, his metal arm gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Steve wasn't sure who these people were, but he suspected he was in the hands of some super shady government organisation. Like one of the alphabet agencies, only worse. One so secret they didn't make the news. One that would have no problem killing him to keep their secret.

They took his protection ward, weak as it was. They went through his bag right in front of him, through his phone and his wallet; they even went through his sketchbook. They didn't let him keep anything, not even his sketchbook. He wasn't sure why, but it'd been smart, since the first thing he would have done when they got wherever they were going would have been draw a map of the corridors he'd been walked through. _That's probably why they didn't let me keep it._

A magic user was brought in, eyes a disturbingly solid blood red, to cast a brief spell over him, making sure he wasn't a plant, that he wasn't carrying someone else's vision behind his eyes. Steve couldn't hold back a shudder, because the magic felt cold and clammy, like tentacles pushing through the pores of his skin.

Satisfied, they sent him off in the custody of the Soldier, pacing through corridors of stone, heading ever deeper underground.

They stopped in front of a door. Its very ordinariness was disturbing. It looked like a hotel room door, like something you'd find in a mid-range Best Western, lacking only a number. The Soldier opened it and led Steve inside. It was one large room with stark white walls and an open door leading to the bathroom. There was a counter with a sink and a small fridge, cupboards and a microwave, stretching down one wall.

No windows, but there wouldn’t be, this far underground. A table and one chair. Two large cupboards. One bed. Steve's eyes landed on it, put it together with the snide comment of _do anything else to him_ , and he tugged sharply at his arm, pulling away from the Soldier.

Who let him go and turned to shut the door.

Only anger had been keeping Steve on his feet. It ran out of him and he discovered he'd been relying on the Soldier's grip more than he'd realised, because he stumbled, weighed down by sudden exhaustion.

The Soldier took two quick strides and caught him with a hand under his elbow.

 

*      *      *

 

Bucky wrapped his fingers carefully around Steve's elbow as he stumbled, not wanting him to fall. Not wanting him to be hurt. He'd done enough to Steve already. He could tell how exhausted he was, how little energy he had left. "You should sleep."

Steve shot him a look Bucky didn't really understand. "There's only one bed."

"I'll sleep on the floor." Steve kept looking at him, searching his face, Bucky didn't know for what, but he finally nodded. He pulled at his arm and Bucky let him go, watched as Steve walked over to sit on the bed.

Steve slid off his shoes and pushed back the covers, watchful gaze never leaving him. He didn't lie down.

Bucky stayed where he was, standing near the door. Steve finally said, "Are you going to turn off the light?" He did. It wasn't quite pitch dark to Bucky, even with no ambient light; the Blood let him see faint outlines. He could see Steve, see the edges of the furniture.  Bucky lay down against a wall, put his back to it and curled into a ball. He heard Steve moving around, could see him finally lie down.

"Are you really just going to lie on the floor?" Steve's voice came out of the dark.

"Yes."

After several minutes Steve let out a long, impatient sigh and Bucky heard him shuffling around. "Head's up." Several objects flew through the air towards him. Bucky caught them easily, alert even though he knew Steve had nothing he could use as a weapon. It was the second pillow from the bed and a bundled up blanket.

Confused, Bucky held them. "Why did you give me these?"

"You can't sleep on the damn floor with nothing," Steve said angrily.

Bucky didn't really understand why Steve would care—he was a prisoner here, Bucky was responsible for that; Bucky was his _enemy_ , had refused to let him escape—but he thought it was better not to argue. He put his head on the pillow and pulled the blanket over himself. He lay there, desperately needing sleep after a mission, but instead he listened to the sound of Steve's breathing.

Eventually, it slowed into restless sleep and took Bucky with it. He woke up whenever it changed.

Steve woke several times, each with a gasp, twice with a muttered _not a dream, then._ Once with a _fuck._ Bucky said nothing, didn't give away that he was awake. There was nothing he could do but listen until Steve went back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve woke up for good in the morning, except he knew it couldn't be _morning_. It had to be sometime in the afternoon. He woke up bleary-eyed and his head hurt.

For a minute, maybe two, he was confused. Didn't know where he was or what had happened. Then his eyes, tracking around the room, trying to figure out what was going on, landed on the Soldier. He wasn't staring at Steve, wasn't watching him. He was sitting cross-legged next to the wall, hands resting on his thighs, looking at nothing. _Thousand-yard stare_ Steve's brain whispered.

Steve's vague worries had been unfounded; he hadn't come anywhere near Steve last night and Steve realised he hadn't actually thought he would. There was something...distant about the Soldier. Steve could imagine the Soldier killing him; he couldn't imagine him doing anything else. He sat up and the Soldier's eyes shifted to him. "Good morning," Steve said, heavy on the irony. It was wasted on the Soldier, who didn't react. "I don't suppose there's coffee?"

"No."

"Of course not." Steve rubbed his forehead. "This whole being held prisoner thing is really going to suck." He didn't know if it was his imagination or not, but he thought the Soldier might have flinched slightly. "Can I take a shower?"

"Yes." The Soldier rose to his feet in a smooth, flowing motion and Steve threw the covers back. He smelled like grease and sweat and something acrid he thought might be fear. The thought of showering it off was a desperate need, even if he was leery of how vulnerable it would make him. The Soldier, who'd been looking through one of the cupboards, turned and held out clothes.

Steve was surprised. Maybe it was payback for the blankets last night. "Uh, I think they're going to be a little big," he said with a touch of humour. The Soldier's gaze shifted to the floor. "I'll manage, though." They were sweatpants and a sweater; he could make do.  "Thanks." The look he got when the Soldier lifted his head was almost shy, the blankness momentarily disappearing, but only for a moment and then it was back. Feeling awkward, Steve bundled the clothes against his chest. "I'm just going to have that shower now."

The Soldier nodded and Steve walked into the bathroom. There was no lock on the door. He shut it and leaned against it, staring up at the ceiling as everything crashed down on him. Adrenaline, it turned out, was almost as good at kick-starting his brain as coffee.

He'd been taken prisoner by a super-shady-probably-government-organisation.

He'd almost died. He could still die.

He'd been handed off to some sort of soldier who, based on last night, could snap at any moment.

Steve had managed to talk him down, incidentally saving his own life ( _why isn't he a red smear on the ground_ ) and dooming himself to _this_. A soldier who seemed to have no name but Soldier, who'd seen no problem with sleeping on the floor with nothing—and hadn't that made him mad? Which made _no sense_ , but Steve had spent his whole life getting mad when half the time it made no sense, so why should almost getting killed and taken captive change that? _Fuck fuck fuck._

He got in the shower, scrubbing himself raw as fast as he could, and pulled on the Soldier's clothes. He was swimming in them, but he rolled up the pant legs, rolled up the sleeves, tied the drawstring as tight as he could, and it was fine. As fine as it could be in the circumstances. And if the super shady government fucks who'd captured him had a problem with it, they could find him something else.

When he came out of the bathroom the Soldier was sitting at the table, waiting for him. "Are you hungry?" he asked, sounding almost hopeful.

"I could eat," Steve replied cautiously.

He stood up and indicated that Steve should sit down, then opened what Steve had thought was a fridge. It was actually a freezer, stacked with identical boxes of frozen meals. There were no brand names, nothing Steve recognised, just clear box after clear box. None looked appetising. "Whatever you're having is fine." The Soldier pulled out two boxes and put the first in the microwave. When it was done, he set it in front of Steve along with a fork and put the second in the microwave. Steve waited until the Soldier's was done, the manners his mother had drilled into him apparently not able to be ignored even in this situation.

When he popped the top off the box, what greeted him were different colours of what was effectively textured mush. _Flavoured_ textured mush, he corrected as he tentatively tried a bit. It wasn't terrible; it wasn't much of anything. He wrinkled his nose and ate. The Soldier leaned against the counter, eating mechanically, with evidence of neither enjoyment nor distaste.

He managed only part of it, then he was full. The Soldier looked from him to his meal, something that could have been concern in his eyes, and Steve said, "It's too much for me. In case you didn't notice," he waved a hand between them, "little bit of a difference between us." His eyes cleared. "You can finish it if you want." He looked torn and Steve wasn't sure if the Soldier was showing more emotion or if he was getting better at reading him, then he nodded and Steve pushed it across the table, watching as he ate the rest of it.

After clearing away the boxes, there was nothing to do but sit. "Don't you have something else you should be doing?"

"We have to wait."

"Until someone decides if I get to live." The Soldier looked away. "You could let me go. Help me escape."

"I can't."

Steve's nostrils flared as anger surged through him, any sympathy he felt burning away under a sudden onslaught of anger. _I was only following orders_. "You could if you wanted to."

A harsh buzzing from the intercom next to the door interrupted them. The Soldier stood and pushed the button. "Yes."

"Report to the office. Bring Rogers."

"Yes."

Steve stood. When the Soldier reached for his arm he pulled it away. "I'll walk on my own."

 

* * *

 

Steve had thought they'd end up above ground, but the office the Soldier led him to was only a few floors up. It was large, though, lavish, like luxury could make up for the lack of sunlight. There was a man in an expensive suit sitting behind a mahogany desk and several armed men leaning against the walls, in poses so studiously casual they may as well have been screaming _We're watching you._ The Soldier stopped a careful distance in front of the desk and Steve stopped beside him.

It took the man behind the desk several minutes to look up from the papers he was working on. Steve was sure it was deliberate and felt the familiar—and welcome—curl of anger in his belly.

When the man finally lifted his head, Steve was struck by his unnervingly blue eyes. They were cold and clear and made Steve feel like an insect, something barely worthy of consideration. "Steve Rogers."

Steve straightened his spine, lifted his chin, pretended he wasn't swimming in clothes that were too big. The Soldier shifted, standing at a modified sort of attention. A quick glance and Steve saw his eyes were on the floor.

"The man who talked the Soldier down. No one's ever been able to do that before." A quick, cold smile. "Though I'm not sure anyone's ever been foolish enough to try, considering the consequences if it doesn't work."

He seemed to be waiting for a reaction. Steve didn't give him the satisfaction, kept his face blank. It seemed to amuse him.

"As of now, you're dead. It's important you understand that." He paused. "You do understand?" he asked casually, as if Steve's life were of no importance. And it wasn't, Steve realised, not to him.

"Yes," he replied, unconsciously mimicking the Soldier.

"Good. But if you can talk him down, that's valuable. That's valuable enough to postpone your death. As long as you keep being valuable, you can keep not dying." He strolled around the room, hands clasped behind his back. As Steve watched him, listened to him talk, he was struck with the certainty that he _knew him_ , that he was familiar, he just couldn't place him. "He's been getting increasingly unstable, so I hope you enjoy a challenge." He smiled. "What do you know about racehorses?"

Steve stared at him in disbelief.

"Never mind. They can be high strung, dangerous. But they give goats to the fractious ones, the unpredictable ones. Pets, to keep them calm, keep them biddable, keep them doing their jobs." He nodded at Steve. "That's you. Once the goat stops being useful, it's packed off to the slaughterhouse. That's also you." He looked expectantly at Steve, waiting for him to respond. Steve said nothing. "Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. Is there anything you want to ask me?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

For one second the man looked offended before his expression smoothed over. "Call me Pierce."

"Right. Pierce. Can I get some coffee?"

Pierce chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

 

* * *

 

The next day, a bunch of people Steve decided to think of as goons arrived with black duffle bags that they dropped on the floor. They also arrived with coffee, the cheapest nastiest instant Steve had ever seen, but Steve didn't care.

Inside the bags were Steve's things, taken from his apartment. Clothes, the contents of his bathroom medicine cabinet, his toothbrush, the bedding stripped straight off his bed, rolled up and shoved in a bag.

Life's essentials. Nothing else.

The goons were gone before he could ask. He looked up at the Soldier. "This is mine. From my apartment."

He nodded.

"Where's everything else? There were photos of my mother. Of my friends." There were so many other things missing: his art supplies, countless physical memories of his life, his library, his computer. His household wards that had been his mother's before him. He'd surrender them all to have those photos. His mother was gone, had died years ago; his friends had moved away where he couldn't follow when his life didn't go where it was supposed to. Those photos were all he had left of the people he'd loved.

The Soldier was silent, seemed to be weighing it up. Then he said, "They're gone."

Steve's fingers clenched on the bag. It was a message, he knew. Everything about it was a message. You don't exist, you're dead, you're a non-person, and non-people don't get anything but the bare essentials.

He glanced around the room, taking it in. Plain, no window, nothing on the walls. A bed, two cupboards—one holding black leather uniforms, one holding basic clothes—the freezer with the food, boxed and frozen and bland. Life's essentials and nothing more. A non-person, just like the Soldier.

Everything about his life that mattered was gone. All he had left was the life itself.

Steve wondered what they'd done to him out there. Had he just disappeared? Had they faked his death? Told people he'd left the country? He let out a breath of bitter laughter as he realised the only people who'd actually miss him were the kids from his job. They were the only people whose lives were going to change, and it would only be the tiniest blip in their existence.

"Steve?"

It was the first time the Soldier had ever used his name. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to get himself under control. "I'm fine."

The Soldier seemed to be weighing something up, struggling with himself. Then he said, "I'm sorry."

Steve shook his head. Sorry really didn't matter a hell of a lot, but he didn't say it. He started taking his things out of the bags. "Can you make some space in the cupboard?" He'd be damned if he'd live out of these bags like a non-person. If he was going to have to live here, for however long he lasted, in this barren room with this man that didn't even have a name, who was probably going to end up killing him, he'd do it like a person.

"Yes." He went to the cupboard and started moving things around. Steve stayed where he was, emptying the bags. The Soldier came and crouched in front of him. "Do you want help?"

"No, I can do it myself." The Soldier nodded. "If I ask you something, will you answer me?"

He shifted awkwardly. "I'll try."

"Are you going to kill me?"

The Soldier licked his lips, eyes flicking to briefly meet Steve's before he glanced away. "I'm going to try not to."

Steve smiled bitterly. "At least that's honest. Can I ask you something else?"

He nodded.

"Have you got a name? There must be something I can call you beside _Soldier_."

A long heavy silence stretched between them. The Soldier tilted his head, eyes on Steve's, holding the contact in a way Steve—based on his extensive knowledge gleaned from the almost two days of their relationship—wasn't expecting. Then he stood and turned away. "They just call me the Soldier."


	4. Chapter 4

_Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light._ Steve had learned it in school and it had resonated with him, rung a bell way down deep in his soul.

Problem was, there wasn't much to rage against. He was angry, he was furious. Everything had been taken from him, he was being held captive, as far as these people were concerned he wasn't even a person, but raging against the Soldier was pointless.

He was definitely Steve's jailer, but he was passive, seemed almost as helpless as Steve sometimes, for all that he could kill Steve; probably would, even though he'd promised he'd try not to.

Steve made a point of asking him on a regular basis to let him go, to help him escape, and he always answered the same way: "I can't."

Steve always replied, "You mean you won't."

But he never got angry that Steve asked, never told him to stop asking. Simply looked away, wouldn't meet Steve's eyes—not that he was ever willing to do that much. He never did anything to hurt Steve, to scare him, just fed him when he fed himself, made him stand by the wall when people arrived to clean the room, to restock the freezer with more identical clear boxes of food, to take away their dirty clothes, their dirty sheets, and bring them back clean.

Steve was reminded sharply of Pierce's goat analogy. The Soldier was their prize racehorse, Steve was his pet, and people showed up to clean their stall, feed and water them, give them fresh bedding. No one ever looked at them. Just came in, did their jobs, and left. The Soldier, who almost never touched Steve, kept him standing against the wall with a hand around his arm when Steve would have tried to approach them, squeezed his arm in warning when Steve tried to talk to them.

Steve kept pushing. One night, very late, when he could hear the Soldier breathing the slow, even breaths of someone deeply asleep, he crept out of bed and slunk across the room, heading for the door. He didn't think he'd get there, the Soldier seemed to sleep on a hair trigger, but he had to try.

The door wasn't locked. It didn't lock from the inside. The Soldier couldn't lock anyone out; he could only be locked in. That said things Steve didn't really want to think about, but it meant maybe _he_ could get out.

Steve never heard him move. Suddenly there was a hand around his wrist. He looked down through the darkness, thought he could see a gleam of metal. "Guess I shouldn't have tried that."

"No."

"You could let me go."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

The fingers released him. "Go back to bed."

Steve went.

After that, the Soldier started sleeping in front of the door.

 

* * *

 

The man who came through the door was bruised and bloody, wearing the same uniform Steve was getting used to seeing—black, nondescript, no insignia. He was bristling with weapons and his face was set in an angry scowl.

"Move your ass, goat-boy," he growled and Steve thought about protesting, thought about telling him exactly where he could he could shove his orders, and then did exactly that. In his own way.

"My name's Steve, not goat-boy," he said, not moving from his spot: sitting on the kitchen counter drinking a cup of terrible coffee. "And I'm busy."

"I don't give a flying fuck what your name is." The man crossed the room, snatched the mug out of Steve's hands, hurled it to smash in the sink, and dragged Steve—who managed to get his feet under him so he didn't fall—off the counter. "You've got a job to do and we need you to fucking do it."

"Get your hands off me," Steve snapped out, digging his fingers into the man's wrist between the tendons while he planted his feet. The man winced, shook him once, making Steve's head snap back, and started for the door, half-dragging Steve behind him.

"Shut up. The Soldier's out of his fucking mind, three of my men are down, so you're going to work your fucking magic or you're going to die."

Adrenaline snapped through Steve. "Let go of me. I'll walk on my own." The man shot him a look laden with contempt, but let him go, shoved Steve ahead of him, guiding him with a series of pokes and prods.

They ended up outside, at the edge of the courtyard in the centre of the compound. The Soldier was standing in the middle of the grass, cold-eyed and inhuman, head swivelling back and forth, searching for enemies.

"Out you go, goat-boy," Steve's escort said in a low tone. "Get him under control."

It was like the night in the park, when the Soldier had grabbed Steve and Steve's life had effectively ended. But that night he'd approached Steve. Steve wasn't sure how to do this. How to get close to him without seeming like a threat.

 _Shit. I'm going to die, aren't I?_ "Get out of sight." Obediently, the man melted away. Steve dragged in a quiet breath and took one slow, careful step onto the grass. Instantly, the Soldier's head snapped around. Steve shifted his gaze to the side, careful not to make eye contact.

The Soldier stayed where he was. Steve decided that was a good sign. Then his eyes reminded him the shapes strapped to the Soldier were _guns_ , his brain realised he didn't actually need to get close to Steve to kill him, and he downgraded it to an _okay_ sign.

Slowly, he moved closer, leaving the walls of the courtyard. He stopped after a few feet and called in his softest, gentlest tone, "It's okay, you're okay."

Someone as big as the Soldier shouldn't be that fast. He was like lightning as he closed the distance between them. Steve backpedalled, almost went down on his ass, would have if not for the déjà vu moment of the Soldier's hands closing around his upper arms. Not bruisingly tight, but he wouldn't be able to escape.

The Soldier was very close as he leaned over Steve. "Okay, this is okay," he said quietly. "You're safe. You know I can't hurt you. Look at you, you're huge. So you're safe." He wasn't dead, his neck remained unsnapped, his body unstabbed, unshot, so he was going to take it as a win. "I don't suppose you want to come back?" Steve took a chance and met the Soldier's eyes, but there was no one home, nothing but cold. "I guess not."

He looked at the ground, thinking, and felt the Soldier's fingers flex against his arms when he was silent for too long. He started talking again, because he was pretty sure his continued existence depended on his keeping up the reassuring tone. He didn't think it really mattered what he said, so he opened his mouth and let the words roll out. "You know, I guess I shouldn't be as angry as I am. These assholes may have stolen my life, but it wasn't much of a life to start with."

A smile, bitter and rueful, stole across his face. The fingers on his arms flexed again. He glanced up. The Soldier's eyes were still vacant and cold, but Steve thought he was listening, maybe some part of him, deep inside, was understanding. "I was supposed to be an artist, I _am_ an artist, I'm a damn good one, but instead I was working at a shitty burger joint with the biggest asshole in the world for a boss." He snorted. "You'd know something about that."

"I should have been good enough to make a living painting, drawing, I'm damned good at both. But no one wants _art_. Being talented isn't enough. You have to be magic. People don't want _good_ art. They want _magic_ art, art that enchants you so you can't look away, that _makes_ you feel specific emotions, specific reactions. People want art to do the work for them, because no one wants to put a damn bit of effort into feeling things on their own."

His voice was rising, carefully cultivated gentleness slipping away under a tide of frustrated anger. The Soldier's shoulders hunched. Steve wasn't sure if it was anger or—and he couldn't help the thought that dropped in from nowhere—as if he was preparing to ward off a blow. He immediately gentled his voice, softened it. It was surprisingly easy. "Hey, no. No, it's okay. I'm sorry. Shhh, you're okay. You're safe. I just get a little carried away sometimes. I don't suppose you could try and come back? Because this is a little worrying when I'm not sure if I've got a time limit. I'm not sure if I don't get you settled down soon they might decide to just shoot me."

He wasn't expecting the Soldier to suddenly move closer, for his hands to tighten, as if that had been some sort of signal, but he couldn't quite keep himself from tensing, from lifting his hands to press against the Soldier's chest, as if he could hold him back, as if he could stop him.

At Steve's touch a shudder ran through him and he let out an explosive breath. His eyes went wide, darting, but suddenly they were the eyes Steve knew. "Welcome back."

He immediately focused on Steve, face filled with questions.

"You didn't kill me," he said, trying for humour, trying for joking, but he knew he mostly sounded tired. "You kept your promise."

The Soldier briefly closed his eyes and something rippled across his face, an emotion Steve didn't have words for, but it made his heart hurt. "This time," he said and carefully opened his hands, letting Steve go. He stepped back, stepped away, putting distance between them. 

Men were making their cautious way into the courtyard. The one who'd dragged Steve out of their room paused next to him just long enough to say, "Nice job, goat-boy. You won me fifty bucks. Everyone else was sure he was gonna kill you."

"Can I get a cut of the action?" It was automatic bravado, his eyes never leaving the Soldier.

A toothy grin was the only response, then he and the Soldier were being hustled off, the Soldier to be divested of his weapons, Steve apparently required to accompany him in case there was a relapse.

When they finally returned to their room the Soldier spotted the smashed mug, the spray of dried coffee, and he turned to Steve. "Did they hurt you?"

"No," he said, because the man who'd dragged him off the bench hadn't, just pissed him off and broken the mug.

The Soldier gave him a searching look, then nodded and started cleaning it up, putting the broken pieces of mug in the trash. Steve walked over to help, but stopped in his tracks when the Soldier shook his head.

Steve stayed where he was, not sure what was going on. When he was finished, the Soldier took clean clothes and went into the bathroom, came out wearing them, and dropped his uniform in a pile next to the door. Someone would collect it and clean it and it would be returned to the cupboard. He spread his blankets in front of the door, lay down, and went to sleep.

Steve, not sure what else to do, sat cross-legged on the bed and watched him. He realised after several minutes that it felt as if he were watching _over him_. It was such a strange thought he shook himself and went to heat up a box of textured mush.

 

* * *

 

Steve was alone in the room. He was almost never alone in the room. The Soldier had left after breakfast without a word.  Steve wondered if it was because of yesterday, because of the incident in the courtyard, wondered if it was shame or guilt or some sort of weird anger that Steve could bring him back. Or if it was nothing to do with the incident and there was another mission.

He didn't waste a lot of time worrying about it. Instead, he crouched in front of the lock on the door. He knew nothing about picking locks, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try and get out. Steve studied it. He didn't think it had anything magical about it, didn't think there were any wards on the room. It seemed like a plain physical lock. It looked like the wooden casing on the door frame could be smashed, maybe, if he had enough time and something to bash it with. Maybe he could figure out how to pick the lock if he had some pieces of wire.

If he could get out, he thought he had most of the corridors memorised. Knew where most of the cameras were. Wasn't precisely sure where to go if he made it to ground level, but he was willing to try despite that. All he needed was a chance.  

Steve heard familiar footsteps in the corridor and he hurried away from the door, sat down on the bed. There was nothing to do so he did nothing, just sat quietly.

 

* * *

 

The HYDRA compound was almost an entire town, hidden inside the thick stone walls. In addition to housing the bulk of HYDRA personnel in this part of the United States, it had to function, at least in part, as an actual shipping company, because it wasn't the only HYDRA base in the country and it was the point of contact for those bases and for HYDRA bases all over the world.

The offices were somewhere the Soldier would almost never go and they weren't somewhere Bucky would usually be found, but he knew where they were. He knew almost every inch of the compound, every kill zone and every potential sniper's nest.

When he made his way into the offices, he brought a wave of fear with him. He didn't mean to, but the woman sitting behind the desk caught sight of his metal arm, her eyes went wide and she froze in her chair, staring up at him like a rabbit. Bucky tried to make himself look smaller. Look less frightening.

It wasn't successful. Everyone knew he was the one Pierce sent to deal with those who stepped over the line. In HYDRA, it wasn't three warnings and you were let go. Stepping over the line meant a visit from the Soldier and a trip to the incinerator for what was left of your body.

She was still staring at him, so he tried a smile. It didn't seem to help. "I won't hurt you," he said quietly. "Could you help me?" That seemed to be different enough from whatever script she was writing in her head that she finally blinked. Twice. "I need some paper, some pencils?"

Another couple of blinks and then she extended her hand and pointed at a cabinet. Her eyes followed him as he walked over and looked through it. He wasn't sure what was right, but he found something he thought would work. "Thanks," he said and left, the woman still staring after him.

When he returned to their room, Steve was sitting on the bed, staring into space. He was doing that more often. It worried Bucky, but he hoped this would help. He crossed the room and held out what he'd found: a pad of cheap white paper and some pencils. "I got these for you."

Steve stared at them, surprise and confusion and suspicion warring for supremacy on his face. "Why?" he finally asked, making no move to take them.

Bucky didn't blame him. "You said you were an artist. I thought it would give you something to do."

"You remember what I said to you."

"Sort of." Bucky looked away, fingers wanting to clench but he didn't want to damage the paper, didn't want to crush the pencils. "Not usually. But that came through."

Steve's warring expressions had faded; he was leaning forward, eyes intent on Bucky. "When you're like that, when I look at you, it's like _you're_ gone. It's like there's no one home."

It wasn't _like_ he was gone; he _was_ gone, but he didn't want to say that to Steve. Didn't want to explain about the Blood, about how all he wanted was the kill. "Yes."

"But you can hear me."

"I hear your voice. The sound of your words. It's..." Bucky shivered, turned away from Steve. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself, but he kept them at his sides, fingers convulsively rubbing over the pad of paper. "I don't want to talk about this," he said hopelessly, not expecting it to do any good.

Steve sat back. "Okay." Shocked, Bucky stared at him. Steve's brows pulled down. "I'm not going to make you talk about it if you don't want to."

"Oh," was all he could say, and he held out the paper and pencils again. This time Steve took them, smiling a little.

"Thanks." He held up one of the pencils, looked at the blunt tip sadly. "Don't suppose you could find a sharpener?" Bucky held out his hand. Steve handed it back and Bucky pulled out a small knife. "I thought you left all your weapons in that room."

"No." Bucky walked over to the trash can and started sharpening the pencil. "But you wouldn't be able to get it away from me and I don't want to hurt you."

"Wouldn't dream of trying," Steve said innocently. "Anyway, it's not like I could do any damage with that little thing."

Bucky's hand tightened on the knife, mildly offended. "It's not that small," he said as he handed the sharpened pencil back to Steve, tucking the knife back out of sight.

"Whatever you say," Steve said, smiling as he accepted the pencil and flipped open the pad of paper. He looked from the paper to Bucky, then shifted to the head of the bed and pointed to the end. "Sit?"

"Why?"

"I need something to draw and we're not exactly drowning in choices." After a moment, Bucky sat, a little unsure, but Steve told him to just hold still. He knew how to do that. With a few slow breaths he let himself slip into the quiet place he went when he had to wait behind a sniper rifle. "No, that's not unnerving at all," he heard Steve mutter, but he sounded warm. Relaxed. Bucky knew he'd done something good in bringing him the paper and pencils.

It couldn’t make up for what he'd put him through, would inevitably put him through again, couldn't make up for any of this—nothing could—but at least he could give him this moment.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm going to go crazy." Steve stood in front of the Soldier, arms folded. "You're going to have to talk _me_ down from killing everyone."

The Soldier glanced from side to side, then said doubtfully, "You don't have any weapons and you don't have any training."

"Details." Steve waved a hand. "I have to get out of this room. If I don't see the sun I'll snap."

"You want to go out for a walk?"

"Yes. Take me for walkies," Steve said sarcastically. "I don't even care if you have to put me in a leash and collar."

"I'll ask." A whisper of a smile crossed the Soldier's face. "I won't mention the collar."

"Yeah, assholes would say yes just to mess with me," Steve muttered, but he unfolded his arms and stepped out of the Soldier's way.

The Soldier was gone for what could have been an hour, could have been twenty minutes. Steve had long since figured out that the lack of a clock was another way of keeping them under control, of making them non-people. Not knowing what time it was, having no concept of the passage of time, was a mild form of torture.

When he returned, he opened the door and beckoned to Steve. "Yeah?" That whisper of a smile again and a nod. Steve quickly pulled on his shoes and followed the Soldier. "Can we go to the courtyard?" The Soldier hesitated, glancing at Steve. "I promise I'm not traumatised. I just want grass and the sun."

The Soldier nodded. Steve paid close attention to everything as they made their way there, to corridors and turnings and cameras. When they reached ground level, he made a mental note of _everything_ , watched who moved where and the directions people walked. He thought he saw a door that might lead to the outside. When he caught the Soldier watching him, he said, "Sorry, apart from the occasional traumatic incident, I've been stuck in that room for so long I think I'd forgotten what other people looked like."

That whisper of a smile came and went and, for one tiny moment, Steve felt guilty. It passed. He didn't owe the Soldier anything. No matter how decent he'd been, he was part of the people keeping him prisoner.

The courtyard was in front of them, the grass a glorious green, the sun bright overhead and Steve wanted to cry. It was beautiful. In reality, Steve knew it was a shitty patch of grass, with equally shitty patches of rocks, but actual reality had little do with the reality he was living now, and to his eyes it was glorious.

He followed the Soldier out onto the grass. When they reached the centre, the same spot where the Soldier had been standing, Steve dropped to run his fingers through the blades of grass and sighed. "I'm going to take off my shoes, okay?"

"Okay." The Soldier sounded...almost amused. Not quite, Steve wasn't sure he was quite capable of that, but the potential was definitely there.

Steve didn't care. He sat down and pulled his shoes and socks off, planted his bare feet in the grass, and groaned. Tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and let the warmth of the sun wash over him. He'd never been a huge one for the outdoors, never been a sun worshipper, but that had been before he'd been confined to one small room. "This is so good."

"You're going to get burnt." The words were so quiet Steve almost didn't hear them.

"I don't care," he sighed.

The Soldier didn't say anything else, just stood beside Steve, but when Steve felt the sun start to get too hot on his skin, started to think maybe he'd have to go in or risk getting sunburn, a shadow covered him. He opened one eye to see that the Soldier had moved, shifted position to stand in just the right spot to cast a perfect shadow over Steve.

He wasn't looking at Steve, his back was to him while he watched three men patrol the top of the compound. Steve said, "Thanks," anyway. He also took the opportunity to slip one of the larger rocks into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

When Bucky had gone to ask if he could take Steve for a walk—not that he'd put it like that—he'd realised no one actually cared what he did with Steve. Well, Pierce might, but Pierce wasn't here, was gone overseas. As long as Steve didn't cause problems, and didn't get permanently damaged, Bucky had come to realise that he could do whatever he wanted with Steve.

It meant he started taking Steve with him whenever Steve wanted to come. When Bucky didn't have duties, he usually stayed in his room, but he'd never been _ordered_ to, so he took Steve to the courtyard when he knew there wouldn't be many people around.

Bucky's duties included training HYDRA's soldiers, HYDRA's agent's, HYDRA's new recruits. He took Steve with him, setting him up safely in a corner of the range, in a corner of the gym, just to get him out of the room. He needed stimulation, Bucky knew, he needed to see things, or he was going to suffer.

Bucky wasn't sure why, but it had become _important_ that Steve be as happy and healthy as possible. There wasn't much he could do, but he could do this.

Today, Steve had chosen to stay in their room while Bucky was training. It had been cancelled half-way through, the recruits pulled out part-way through their time on the range for some task Bucky hadn't been informed of. 

He wasn't being stealthy when he walked back into their room, but Steve didn't seem to have heard him. His head jerked up in shock as Bucky shut the door. He was sitting at the table, pad of paper open in front of him. As he hurriedly flipped it shut, Bucky caught a glimpse of what he'd been working on. It didn't look like a picture. It looked like a diagram. It looked familiar. He slowly walked over to stand next to the table. "What was that?"

"A drawing. That's what you gave it to me for."

Bucky gazed down at him impassively. Steve's chin went up, his shoulders went back. Bucky had learned what that meant. It meant Steve wasn't going to budge. "I need you to show me." Nothing. His heart sank. If Steve wasn't willing to show him it couldn’t be anything good. "If you don't, I'll have to take it."

Steve glared up at him for a long time. Bucky waited. Eventually, with a defiant flourish, Steve opened the pad to the page he'd been working on.

It was a map. It was a map of the compound, at least the parts Steve had seen. It was a good map, accurate, with the camera locations sketched out. Bucky hadn't realised Steve was capable of that level of observation, could memorise that level of detail. It was an excellent map. Even with a map that good, he still wouldn't be able to escape, but he'd probably make it far enough to get killed.

"Steve." Steve's chin lifted even higher and his eyes narrowed, like he was daring Bucky to punish him for it. Bucky wouldn't hurt him, not by choice, no matter what he did; he'd thought Steve would know that by now. Wearily, he said, "I can't let you keep it."

"You could if you wanted to." Steve's voice was flat. "You could help me escape if you wanted to. They treat you like garbage and you still do everything they say. So don't tell me you can't let me keep it, like you haven't got a choice."

Each word was like a nail in his heart, like fingers of frost clenching around the warm spots Steve's presence had worn in him. Almost, almost he blurted out that he _didn't_. That he _didn't_ have a choice, that if he could, he'd fight Steve free. He kept silent. In the end, it wouldn't make a difference if Steve knew. He'd still be trapped here and it would still be Bucky's fault. He looked away. "I don't want to take it away from you. Will you give it to me?" After a moment, he heard the sound of tearing paper. He turned back. Steve was holding it out. Bucky took it from him, folded it and tucked it into his pocket. "Thank you."

Steve snorted and went back to drawing. He didn't speak to Bucky for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

The next day, they sent him out to kill. He was a weapon in HYDRA's hands and a weapon unused was useless. He didn't slip, didn't surrender to the Blood. He fought it back and held onto himself.

He knew Steve would be waiting when he returned. He knew if he slipped, they'd send Steve to bring him back. He didn't want to risk killing Steve.

With every kill, the Blood promised peace: all Bucky had to do was give in. Having something to focus on, having _Steve_ to focus on, made it easier to turn away from that promise.

When he returned from the mission, he was still the Soldier, still fighting the Blood. Not out of control, but cold and distant, dangerous. No one cared that he might still be a danger to Steve; they took his weapons and sent him to their room.

Steve stood when he walked in, looked at him carefully. Then he talked quietly to him, spoke calmly and gently. Told him it was okay, that he was safe.  It settled him, brought him back from the Soldier.

Steve's words, his voice, were lies. Bucky knew they were lies. Steve was only speaking to him kindly and gently because he wanted to live. Bucky didn't know why it worked, didn't know why Steve could reach him, but he let himself believe the lies.

Exhausted, he curled up in his blankets with his back against the door, closed his eyes and fell asleep with the sound of Steve's voice in his ears.

 

* * *

 

The Soldier was on another mission. He'd been getting sent on more and more of them, was coming back, not quite _gone_ , but still cold and deadly. Steve figured it was only a matter of time before he snapped and then that'd be the end of him.

It lent a certain urgency to getting the hell out. He knew his chances weren't good, but he had to try. It was late, he didn't know exactly how late because they still didn't have a clock, but he'd gotten good at tracking the passage of time by how hungry he was, how thirsty he was, how often he had to go to the bathroom. It wasn't precise, but if they wouldn't give him a clock, he'd use everything he had, and he figured it was late enough.

He had the rock he'd managed to smuggle in from the courtyard, the rock he'd shoved under the mattress. The rock he was going to use to smash the wood casing around the lock.

It took him some time but he got through it—the wood of the door frame soft and old, splintering readily—desperation lending him the strength he naturally lacked.

Steve was wearing black, hoping to go unnoticed if someone only glimpsed him, since most people here wore black. He stuck close to edges, to the walls, following the route he'd mapped on paper and then in his head when the Soldier had made him give it up. He knew where the cameras were. He knew where to stand to avoid them. He'd never been so grateful to be small and skinny, because he could slip through what he thought were their blind spots.

So far, he seemed to be right.

He went wrong one floor shy of ground level. He came around a corner and saw a trio of guards. There was no chance to duck back around the corner, to wait them out, because they saw him.

They didn't shoot him; everyone knew who he was, no one was going to shoot him out of hand, but they started for him.

Steve should have run. He probably should have run, bolted back to their room.

Fuck that. Maybe he could get past them.

He wrenched a fire extinguisher off the wall, because without a weapon he wasn't going to last long. They laughed at him and he cracked his neck and pulled the pin on the extinguisher, shot a blast of fog into the air and ran _towards_ them, swinging the extinguisher as hard as he could into Guard One's knee. He heard a crack and kept moving past them, letting the momentum carry the extinguisher around and into Guard Two's kidneys.

Guard One went down and Steve shot another blast of fog, aimed the extinguisher right for Guard Three's balls and felt it connect. Hard. He went down like a sack of hammers, whimpering and clutching himself.

Steve backpedalled as the other two advanced on him, Guard One limping but back on his feet. Neither were laughing now, faces filled with anger, and he smothered the hallway with fog, until no one could see. It didn't matter. They came at him, coordinated and taking him seriously, and he smashed the extinguisher towards one's gut, but he turned, took the brunt of it on his hip with a grunt. Steve used the extinguisher like a shield, blocked their blows, kept them at bay, but it couldn't last. They had him, ripped it out of his hands, shoved him up against the wall.

"You fucking little shit," Guard One hissed in his ear.

"Oughta break your fucking neck," Guard Two grunted.

Guard Three, who'd taken all of Steve's rage in the form of a fire extinguisher to the balls, whimpered.

Steve fought, lashing out with feet, with knees, but was quickly immobilised. "Can't kill him. Can't do any serious damage, nothing permanent." Steve could barely see them, even as close as they were, the white fog still filling the corridor. "Doesn't mean we can't hurt him before we take him back."

A hand slapped him hard, sending his head snapping back. Did it again. And again. His arm was twisted up and over his head, making his joints scream in agony, as he was punched in the stomach, once, twice, three times, and he wanted to curl into a ball. "That all you've got?" he choked out and heard one of them snarl in anger.

A shadow loomed out of the fog, a silhouette Steve recognised. The Soldier in full uniform. Guard Three made a noise, making Guard Two look over his shoulder. He showed no concern at the new arrival.

It made Steve's heart sink, because if they weren't worried it meant the Solder was here to watch. Or to join in.

When his metal hand clamped down on Guard Two's shoulder and heaved him away from Steve, hurling him across the hall to slam into the wall and slide, unconscious, down to the floor, Guard One gaped at him, barely had time to choke out, "You can't—" before he followed Guard Two.

Guard Three stayed still and silent. The Soldier loomed over Steve who stared up at him. His eyes looked...normal. Steve had been expecting cold, inhuman, but they were as human as he got, maybe a little more human that Steve had ever seen him.

"Can you walk?" he asked quietly.

"They barely touched me." It was a lie, his gut was aching, but they'd been punching to _hurt_ not to damage. He'd survive. "You could let me go. I was almost out."

"No you weren't." He sounded suddenly weary. "And no I can't. Will you come with me or do I have to make you?"

Steve thought about it. Thought about forcing the Soldier to drag him back to their room. Looked up at his face, at his eyes that were very human and very tired. "I'll come with you."

He walked slowly beside the Soldier, down to the room where the Soldier's weapons lived. Waited while he took them all off. Then walked beside him all the way down to their room. When the Soldier saw the splintered wood of door frame he gave Steve a look Steve wasn't sure how to interpret but he thought...If it had been on anyone else it would have been worried. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky was worried about the door. Worried about the escape, about what it was going to mean for Steve when it came to Pierce's attention. But that worry was being drowned in the heady knowledge that he'd protected Steve.

He'd _protected_ him.

Steve had value to HYDRA. Steve brought him back after his missions. He was doing the job HYDRA needed him to do. He had value, Pierce had said so. That meant he could protect Steve from people who tried to hurt him, even from people who were part of HYDRA. It was those people who were trying to damage something of value to HYDRA.

A feeling Bucky didn't have words for, a warmth, a spark, was flooding through him. It had taken everything he had not to grab hold of Steve and hang onto him.

Not to stop him from escaping. But to keep him safe.

Except he knew there was no way Steve could understand. There was no way to make him understand. He kept asking Bucky to let him go, to help him escape, not understanding that Bucky would, if he had the power, do anything to get Steve his freedom.

He was helpless to set Steve free. But suddenly, for the first time, he realised wasn't helpless to protect him.

 

* * *

 

Five nights later, two men in black uniforms dragged Steve out of bed and threw him into a car at gun point, hands cuffed in front of him. An hour later, they careened into a building site and no one had said a word.

They didn't have to talk, Steve knew why they wanted him, and after his attempt to escape he wasn't surprised by the cuffs or the gun.

Hard hands pulled him past two dead men with fancy suits and neat bloody holes in their foreheads, but they kept moving, into the partially constructed building. The framework of an elevator carried them up to the tenth floor where more men were waiting, all in the familiar black uniforms, and they pulled Steve out of the elevator, and down the hall. This high up the wind whistled through the open walls, swirling gritty construction dust into the air, and he had to blink his eyes to clear them. There was a door at the end of the hallway, held shut with a steel bar. In one smooth move one man lifted it and opened the door and the other shoved Steve through and slammed it shut.

He heard the bar fall back into place as he stumbled, off balance with his hands cuffed in front of him, and his heart slammed into high gear as he saw the drop straight back down to the ground waiting for him.

Steve shoved his back against the door. He was standing on a narrow ledge, not more than four feet wide. The Soldier was standing right at the edge. There were two dead people near Steve's feet, one with his face mostly missing. Steve turned away from the mess of bone and blood. His eyes landed on the rifle near the Soldier's feet; it was sleek and dangerous-looking, even sitting there quiet and unused. There was another rifle, lying on its side, half hanging over the edge.

The Soldier turned, eyes locking onto Steve. A heartbeat passed and then he was crowding Steve against the door.

Shocked, Steve sucked in a breath. The Soldier was too close. It took him a moment to find the calm spot where he could start trying to talk him down. He took another breath. "Easy," he said softly. "It's okay. You're safe." He tipped his head back. The Soldier's eyes were cold, distant. No one was home. But he was keeping Steve pressed against the door. "Could you maybe give me some space?" There was no movement. "I guess not. Okay, this is a little concerning. Just to let you know." He kept his voice soft and gentle. "I'm thinking if you keep it up for too long there could be potential for an upgrade to worrying."

Unexpectedly, because it was so fast, the Soldier shuddered and, between one breath and the next, came back. He blinked. Blinked again. And took a small step backwards. "You shouldn't be out here," he said. "You could fall."

"It wasn't my idea."

The Soldier's gaze drifted down. "Your hands."

"Yeah, they didn't want me to escape."

"Can I?" he asked quietly and lifted his metal hand.

Hesitating, because he wasn't sure exactly what the Soldier was asking, Steve held out his hands. Delicately, obviously being careful not to hurt Steve, he crushed the lock on each cuff between his metal fingers, letting them fall to the ground. Steve stared at them, then glanced up at the Soldier. "Thank you."

The Soldier nodded. He picked up his rifle in one hand, said, "Hold still," then twisted and slammed his boot through the door. Steve jerked, surprised, but the Soldier was between him and the ledge, wasn't touching Steve but was curving his body into a space where Steve could stand safely. He reached past Steve and through the hole in the door to lift the bar, then pushed the door open and gestured Steve through. Every movement was careful, deliberate. His eyes were cold when they passed over the team waiting on the other side of the door and he immediately put himself between them and Steve.    

They started to back away, one muttering, "Shit, it didn't work,"

Steve, standing behind the Soldier, said, "Yes, it did."  

There was a long uncertain silence. The Soldier gestured at Steve and Steve moved to stand beside him as he thrust the rifle at the man who'd spoken. Steve stayed beside the Soldier as they walked back down the hallway, as they rode back down in the skeleton of the elevator. When they neared the two bodies, the Soldier shifted to block Steve's view. Steve had already seen them, it was pointless, but it reinforced the feeling he'd been getting since the Soldier had come back: he was trying to protect Steve. 

He wasn't sure what to do with it, but as they drove back to the compound, Steve rubbing the red marks left by the cuffs, the atmosphere in the van was precarious. Fragile. Only for the first time it didn't feel like _Steve_ was the one whose safety was hanging in the balance.


	6. Chapter 6

The first warning Bucky had that Pierce had returned from overseas was when the intercom buzzed and he was summoned to Pierce's office. Pierce wasn't alone. The guards Bucky had thrown across the corridor the night Steve had tried to escape were there, and the leader of the team Bucky had refused to let come near Steve the night he'd broken Steve's cuffs and taken him out of the building.

Pierce stared at Bucky, eyes cold, for long silent minutes. Then he said, tone dangerously casual, "Explain. Everything Mr Rogers has done since I left. Everything you've done with regards to him. Explain why."

Bucky didn't want to obey. He should have known it would come to this. He wanted to fight it, wanted to keep protecting Steve, but he couldn't. He had no choice. He told Pierce everything.

Pierce nodded thoughtfully when Bucky was finished, said, "I see," and sent Bucky to retrieve Steve.

Steve didn't want to come, but he studied Bucky's face and didn't protest, walking silently by Bucky's side. As they came to a halt in front of Pierce's desk, the look in Pierce's eyes set fear pooling in Bucky's gut.

 

*      *      *

 

"Mr Rogers." Steve raised an eyebrow. It got him a half smile in return. "You've been causing trouble." Steve stayed silent. "Nothing to say? You don't want to defend yourself?"

Steve shook his head.

"Very well. These are the rules. You will behave. You will not attempt to escape. You will do as you are told. You're alive entirely at my sufferance because you are useful. If the goat escapes and begins causing trouble it gets sent to the slaughterhouse, regardless of how well the horse is performing." His eyes shifted to the Soldier. "And you. You will not protect him. If he breaks the rules, anyone can punish him. You may only interfere if an enemy of HYDRA attempts to harm him." There was a gleam in those cold eyes that sent ice down Steve's spine, made him want to take a step back, put distance between them. "To make sure you both understand. Soldier, break his finger. You can chose which one. Do it now."

For one second, Steve didn't believe it. When the Soldier's hand landed on his shoulder he didn't believe it was happening. When he realised it was, when he silently began to fight, it was too late.

Truth was, it would always have been too late. The Soldier was too strong. There was nothing Steve could do to escape. In seconds, he had Steve on the ground, on his knees, had pinned Steve against his body, holding him still with his arms and his knees in an obscene parody of an embrace. He trapped Steve's arms against the front of his chest. Steve twisted, tried to wrench away, and the Soldier held him tighter and wrapped his metal hand around Steve's left hand, clamped his metal fingers tightly around the base of Steve's pinkie finger, immobilising it. Steve couldn't move. He could feel the Soldier's breath ghost over his cheek, could feel the Soldier's heart beating against his back. Time slowed as the Soldier closed his right hand around Steve's finger.

He swallowed hard; didn't close his eyes, didn't look away.

It hurt; fuck, it _hurt._ The crack of breaking bone was deafening. Nausea roared through him. He didn't scream, but he couldn't hold back a dull grunt. His finger was bent at an impossible angle, the Soldier's fingers still wrapped around it and, as he watched, the Soldier pushed the broken bone back into place. Pain lashed him, making him grunt again, making him hiss, making him bite his tongue to hold back a cry. His stomach churned, he could taste bile in the back of his throat.

For the first time, he understood how helpless he was. 

"Break the rules again, Mr Rogers, and he'll be the one who punishes you. You can both go."

The Soldier slowly released him and rose to his feet. Steve stayed on his knees, cradling his hand. He wasn't sure he could stand. A strong hand wrapped around his elbow, the Soldier urging him to his feet. He wanted to shake it off but he knew they needed to get out of this office. He let the Soldier pull him to his feet, let him support him as they walked out.

When they were well away from the office, the Soldier quietly said, "I'm sorry."

Steve didn't say anything, the throb of his broken finger filling the space where he would have replied. He thought he believed the Soldier. He wasn't sure it mattered.

 

* * *

 

When they returned to their room, Bucky lowered Steve to sit on the bed, backed off and crouched a few feet in front of him, trying to make himself small, not a threat. "If I go, will you wait here quietly?"

Steve was cradling his hand, his finger already starting to swell. He was watching Bucky warily, in a way he hadn't since the beginning. Bucky wanted to be sick. He'd thought he could protect Steve and instead he'd been forced to hurt him. All he'd been allowed to do was choose how. All he'd been able to do was try and minimise the damage. He'd broken Steve's left pinkie finger because he'd thought it would interfere the least with his drawing. He'd broken it as cleanly as he could, had put the bone back in place as best he could, in the hopes it would heal straight.

He knew he wouldn't be allowed to take Steve to one of the doctors. But he could go and find one of those doctors, ask for what he'd need to treat it himself. As long as he could be sure Steve would wait quietly.

Steve looked up from his hand. "What are you going to do to me if I don't?" Bucky flinched. Steve immediately looked as if he regretted it. "That was a shit thing to say."

"No it wasn't. I hurt you. I broke your finger. Will you?"

"I'll wait quietly."

Bucky nodded and left. He came back as quickly as he could with a splint, a roll of tape, a chemical ice pack and a bottle of pills. Steve hadn't moved, but he was paler than when Bucky had left. He crouched where he'd been before. "Will you let me splint your finger?"

"Don't have much choice. I can't do it myself."

Bucky nodded. "The doctor gave me these," he shook the bottle, "for the pain."

"Painkillers sound good. What are they?"

"Demerol?"

Steve's eyes widened slightly. "Not messing around are you?"

"Are they good?" Painkillers didn't work on Bucky, not for long enough that anyone bothered.

"You could say that." Bucky got a glass of water and opened the pill bottle, handing it to Steve, who awkwardly shook out two, trading Bucky the bottle for the water to swallow the pills, then handing it back. Bucky put them on the counter and returned to crouch in front of Steve. "Let them kick in before you touch anything."

Bucky nodded. They were silent, waiting, when Bucky said, "Please do what Pierce said."

Steve looked up from his finger. "What, be a good little goat?" he asked bitterly.

He winced, but said, "Yes."

"No."

"Steve. He can make me hurt you. He can make me hurt you anytime he wants. I don't want to hurt you."

"Why do you do what he says?"

Bucky looked away.

"No. _Why_? You're strong, you're dangerous. You kill for them. Next time you load yourself up with weapons, why don't you just shoot your way out of this place, starting with Pierce? Take me with you if you can, but even if you can't, just go. They wouldn't be able to stop you."

"I can't."

"You always say that—"

"No. _I can't._ " He pushed to his feet, stalked away, fingers curled into fists.

"Why?"

"I'm Bound."

"...what?"

"Bound. With a soul-chain. I can't say no. I have to obey him."

Steve stared up at him with dawning horror. "You can't, he can't do that."

Bucky turned to look at Steve, hair falling over his face, gaze steady.

Steve recoiled as the truth sunk in. "That's, it's actually evil. There's nothing worse than that."

"That doesn't matter much to HYDRA."

"HYDRA isn't a shady government organisation, is it?"

"No."

"What is it?" Bucky was silent. "You can't answer that."

"No."

"Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. That's..." Steve scrubbed his hand through his hair, damaged hand resting on his lap. "Everything I've been doing to you, everything I've been _saying_ to you. _You could if you wanted to_. Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You didn't know."

"Doesn't mean it's okay," he ground out. "There's nothing more evil than what they did to you."

Bucky's smile was bitter, because there was and they'd done it to him first. "It's been a long time. He's not the first. I'm used to it."

"That's worse," Steve said softly. "That makes it so much worse." When Bucky didn't reply, he asked, "How long has it been?"

"I don't really remember. A long time. They put me to sleep when they don't need me, so I don't know how long exactly." Steve was almost vibrating with anger, his good hand clenched in a fist. "That's not what matters. You need to understand what it means. I can't protect you. I'm not allowed to protect you. I can't keep you safe. If he tells me to hurt you, I have to hurt you. He can make me do anything to you."

Steve stared at his broken finger and Bucky could see his mind working. "All right," he said slowly. "I won't break the rules. I won't cause trouble. I'll try not to," he amended. "I'm not always so good at that, but I'll do my best." 

"Thank you." Relief flooded him. "Pierce could, he _will_ make me hurt you, so much worse than breaking your finger. You could get hurt badly if you don't."

"I'm not worried about me getting hurt. I'm not going to let him do that to you." Bucky stared at Steve in confusion. Steve scowled. "I won't let him use me as a way to hurt _you_ and that's what I'd be doing. It's not going to happen. If I have to toe the line to stop it," he grimaced, like it physically pained him, "I'll do it. Can't promise I won't run if I get the chance, but I'll follow the rules. I'll try. Not gonna let him use me to hurt you."

Bucky didn't know what to say to that. He was still trying to work it out when he realised Steve's eyes were unfocused, his face a little soft. "Are the pills working?"

"Yeah, I think they are."

"Can I touch you?" Steve blinked at him, confused. "Your finger," he said. "To splint it."

Steve nodded, carefully, like his head might tumble off. Bucky realised the painkillers were maybe stronger than he'd thought. He knelt next to the bed and gently, barely touching him, ran his fingers along the break. It was clean and he'd put the bone back where it belonged. "You were careful," Steve said.

"I tried to be. I thought this would be the best finger, would mean you could still draw."

All of his training was the only reason he didn't jerk away when he felt the touch on his hair. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he said under his breath.

"I'll thank you if I want to," Steve said mulishly.

Startled, he laughed. Just once, and it was rusty, had no humour in it. "Fine, thank me. For breaking your finger _carefully._ "

"I will." He was silent as Bucky gently fit the splint over his finger, wincing and going pale, even with the painkillers. "You do a lot of things carefully."

He didn't reply, cutting lengths of tape and using them to secure the splint.

"You've done the best you can for me. Haven't you?"

Bucky didn't answer. "How about you lie down with this ice pack?" Whether it was the pills or the pain, Steve was uncharacteristically obedient as he lay down; set his hand on the pillow then lifted it to let Bucky lay the ice pack, wrapped in the edge of the sheet, underneath it.

"I wish I had something else to call you besides _Soldier._ " He was looking up at Bucky, eyes half-closed and soft with the drugs. There was no trace of fear. "I hate that you don't have a name."

Bucky drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Weighed it up. Didn't know if it was penance or trust or the only defiance he could reach that made him say, "I only have one thing left from before they Bound me."

Steve's eyes were kind and angry and gentle, silently inviting him to share, silently promising him his confidence wouldn't be betrayed. "Will you tell me?"

"It's a word. It doesn't mean anything, but I held onto it. Bucky. A long time ago, before HYDRA, it's what I was called. It's, if you want to call me something, you could call me that."

Gently, Steve reached out and touched his arm, startling him, making him jump. "Are you sure?"

"Only here, only when we're alone. They don't know I remember."

"Bucky," Steve said softly and when Steve said it, _Bucky_ sounded like more than just a word with no meaning, more than a jumble of letters the Blood hadn't burned out of his head.

Bucky sounded like a word that _meant_ something.

 

* * *

 

The intense throb of pain woke Steve in the middle of the night. He hissed in a breath, bit his lip not to cry out as he jarred his finger against the sheets.

It was a finger. It shouldn't hurt so much. But it did, even though he knew Bucky had done the best he could.

 _Bucky_. Not the Soldier. Bucky who remembered his name but it was just a word, a word that didn't mean anything.

Bucky who was Bound with a soul-chain. It was the ultimate sin. The ultimate unforgivable act, to chain someone's soul, to take their will. Even _thinking_ about it made him feel dirty. People didn't talk about it, but _everyone_ had heard about it, even though it was a magic that was supposed to be extinct.

It was like snuff films. Everyone knew they weren't real, except for someone who knew someone who knew someone who'd actually seen one. Only talking about snuff films was less likely to get you expelled from polite company than talking about chaining someone's soul. It was old magic, blood magic, ancient magic from a time before people were civilised, whatever civilised meant.

His finger throbbed, sending pain lashing through him with every beat of his heart. He could get up and find the painkillers. He didn't. The pain seemed a fair punishment for everything he'd put Bucky through. Every time he'd said _you don't want to_. _You have a choice_. It must have been like rubbing salt in the wound.

It didn't matter that he hadn't known. His mother had always said it didn't matter what you intended, all that mattered was what you caused.

How hard had Bucky tried to look after him? Filtered through what he knew now, that Bucky was a prisoner, just like him—worse, that Bucky was the next thing to a slave—Bucky had tried so hard. Bucky had been doing the best he could for him. Had been trying to keep him safe. Pierce had literally had to order him to stop protecting Steve.

Steve was possibly the biggest asshole in the world. At least as bad as some of these HYDRA people. So yeah, he'd take the pain as a fair trade. He shifted, trying to find a position that was comfortable, couldn't stop another hiss of pain.

He heard Bucky's breathing change. "Steve?" He didn't answer, figuring Bucky would think he was still asleep. "Steve, are you okay?" Maybe not.

"I'm okay."

He heard Bucky get up, squinted against the sudden glare as the lights came on. "No you're not."

"You calling me a liar?" Bucky walked over to look down at him, to look at his finger, then went away and came back with two pills and a glass of water. "I'm okay, Bucky." Bucky's eyes warmed when Steve used his name and Steve couldn't help smiling. "Really."

"Then I guess I'm calling you a liar, because you're pale, and you're sweating, and you have a broken finger, so I know you're in pain. I don't know why you think you need to keep being in pain, but you don't. So take these." He held out the pills.

Steve thought about arguing, thought about Bucky trying to look after him and keep him safe, thought about Bucky having to watch him be in pain, and used his good hand to shove himself upright. "Water first," he said, reaching for the glass. He handed it back, plucked the pills from Bucky's hand, swallowed them down, took the glass for another few swallows, and gave it back. "Thanks."

A little smile, there and gone, and Bucky took the glass back to the sink, turned off the lights and Steve heard him lie back down in his blankets on the floor. Sudden anger spurred him. "That's going to change."

"What?"

"You sleeping on the floor."

He could feel Bucky's caution as he carefully said, "There's only one bed," repeating Steve's words from the first night.

"We can take turns," Steve said firmly. "You shouldn't have to sleep on the damn floor every night like a dog."

"No."

"You can't just say no."

"I just did."

"It's not fair."

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

"But it's fine for you?" Bucky didn't reply and in his silence Steve heard his answer: yes, it was perfectly okay for _Bucky_ to sleep on the floor. "No, it's _not_ fine for you. Tomorrow night you're sleeping in this bed or I'll climb into those blankets with you."

There was a shocked silence. "You're injured," Bucky finally said.

"My finger's broken, not my legs or my arm."

"No, but you're still injured. You're in pain, and it's my fault. When it's better, when it's healed, we can take turns."

"It's not your fault."

"I broke your finger." Bucky voice was flat, cold, more like the Soldier Steve talked gently to after missions. "You fought me and you couldn’t get away and I held you down and hurt you."

"It was _not_ your fault." Steve could feel the drugs starting to kick in, a gentle wave of soothing warmth cresting up his spine, and he angrily fought them back. "Did you want to?" he asked sharply.

"No."

"Do you want to hurt me?"

"No."

"You tried to protect me, you tried to keep me safe, Pierce had to order you to stop."

"Yes."

"Then don't say it was your fault, Bucky," he said, voice softening. "It may have been your hands and your body, but you weren't the one in charge of them."

"I still did it."

"I know," he replied, voice still soft. "And I can't imagine what it's like to live with that." He knew they weren't just talking about his finger anymore. "But I don't blame you. You were as careful as you could be. Even when Pierce was using you, you were still trying to look after me."

There was a long silence, long enough the drugs crept into Steve's thoughts and wove their tendrils into his mind, making everything floaty and soft. The throb from his finger was a distant memory. He had a distinct and thankfully resistible urge to tumble out of bed and walk across the room to hug Bucky. He drifted in the dark and found truth waiting there for him. "This is forever, isn't it?"

"I think so. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Bucky. If there's one person in the entire goddamn world whose fault it's _not_ it's yours." Bucky didn't reply. "I'm going to keep telling you that until you believe me." His sudden laughter was dry. "Seems like I might have a long time to work on it."


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky had told Steve the truth about being Bound because he needed Steve to know he'd never hurt him by choice. Because he needed Steve to understand that if he kept breaking rules, kept fighting, Bucky could be forced to hurt him again. Because he needed Steve to understand that there was no safety here.

Steve was trying to be good. To toe the line, to obey the rules Pierce had set down. Bucky could see the effort he made, moments of temper that hung in the balance—but then Steve would look at him, take a deep breath, and the moment would pass.

It was what he'd been hoping for, but he'd never thought Steve would be doing it for _him_ , so Bucky wouldn't have to hurt him. Steve wasn't worried about _being hurt_ —he should have been, because Pierce could be endlessly creative and it was amazing how much could be done to someone that they wouldn't die from—he was worried about Bucky.

It woke something inside Bucky, sparked something to life, kindled a point of warmth under his heart, a spot that he thought was _Steve_ , was the knowledge that Steve valued him. It made it even easier to fight the Blood.

He wasn't expecting anything from Steve; it was enough that Bucky wasn't going to be made to hurt him again _._ He certainly wasn't expecting to suddenly see what Steve looked like when he thought he had something to protect. It should have been funny, because he was skinny and weak and short, at least compared to Bucky, and when he deliberately planted himself so he was standing between Bucky and the rest of HYDRA, it _should_ have been funny. It wasn't. It was terrifying, because Bucky felt like Steve wanted to take on anyone who tried to hurt him. He didn't do anything serious, because he'd promised to be good, promised to try, but he made a point of walking between Bucky and everyone else, standing between Bucky and everyone else—it made that little spot under Bucky's heart even warmer.

Somehow they'd become two people ranged on the same side, two people who were helping each other survive in the face of the whole world ranged against them. 

When Steve tried to draw and he was ready to throw his paper across the room in frustration, because he couldn’t hold the pad still with his broken finger, Bucky sat on the edge of the table, so close his legs were brushing Steve's, and held the pad still for him. Steve smiled and let his injured hand rest in his lap while he sketched a picture of Bucky's face, given it was so close, framed by the hair falling over his cheeks. It was a small thing, but they worked together naturally without having to talk about it first, and it was how things started to go.

Steve laughed when Bucky gave him a knife to sharpen his pencils, even smaller than the one he'd made fun of the first time, because he wouldn't be able to use it until his finger was healed. Bucky had tentatively smiled back, but he wasn't worried. It wasn't big enough to do any serious damage and Steve had promised to behave.

They were both stuck here, there was no end in sight, but they weren't alone. For the first time since HYDRA had remade him with the Blood of their god and a chain on his soul, Bucky wasn't alone.

 

* * *

 

Steve had been asleep when hard hands dragged him out of bed. He kicked out, throwing punches, and was flung to the floor, eyes opening to blinding lights as he was dragged to his feet. Someone yelled that the Soldier needed to be kept calm right the hell now and he stopped fighting.

He ran up two levels and was pulled into a blindingly white room, filled with chaos and spatters of red.

"Keep him still!"

"Where the hell is goat-boy?!"

It was something out of hell, a Bosch painting come to life. Bucky strapped to a table, metal arm torn free of the restraints, and he lashed out as somebody came too close, sending them flying to crash into the wall. Someone Steve hoped was a doctor had their hands _inside_ Bucky's abdomen. "Get up there and get him calm!" Steve stumbled forward as he was shoved towards Bucky's head. Bucky's eyes were wide, terrified and agonised, a dumb animal caught in a trap.

Rage was outstripping fear, because why the fuck was Bucky awake? Steve called out, wished he could use his name, knew he couldn't, settled for, "Hey, hey, it's okay," a terrible lie because nothing here was okay, could never be okay, as blood ran over the hands of the man with his fingers deep in Bucky's gut.

Bucky's eyes locked onto him and his bloody metal hand lashed out. Steve waited for it to connect, knew it would probably kill him, but it caught his shirt, pulled him in, pulled him closer, so he was pinned against the table, half-leaning over Bucky's bare, bloody chest. Bucky whimpered. Steve curled his left arm against his chest, tucking his broken finger out of the way, and cupped Bucky's face with his right hand. He'd never touched Bucky like this, had barely touched him at all, but that whimper... "Shhh, it's okay. Just look at me." His other arm was strapped to the table, Steve could see it straining, fingers clenching convulsively. "Let him go," he said to the first person to cross his line of sight.

"But—"

"I don't care." His voice had the bite of command and the man's back stiffened in response. "Unstrap his other arm."

Gingerly, like he wasn't certain why he was doing it, he obeyed. Instantly, Bucky wrapped it around Steve's back, fingers digging in. "There, you're okay. It's okay. I've got you. You've got me. It's fine." Bucky was panting, harsh guttural breaths, but he'd stopped struggling, was clinging to Steve while Steve held his face. "Do it now. Whatever you're doing, do it now."

There was a flurry of movement behind him, people he hoped like fuck were trained medical professionals digging into Bucky, making him keen through clenched teeth. He heard things like, "get all the fragments," and, "shattered into his liver," and, "he's healed around them," but he didn't care.  He kept his eyes on Bucky's, kept up a soothing stream of gentle words, kept his hand on Bucky's face, strong and certain, and Bucky's eyes never left his.

"We're done." Steve didn't register the words at first. "Hey. We're done." The man who'd had his hands in Bucky's gut was standing in front of him. "You did a good job keeping him calm. You can go back to your room."

Bucky's arms tightened around him. "Where's he going?"

"We’ll be taking him to recovery."

"Then that's where I'm going."

He didn't argue. Steve walked next to Bucky as they wheeled him into another room, shifted him into a hospital bed. One of them even went and found Steve a chair. Steve had dried blood on his clothes, on his skin, but he didn't really care. He sat next to Bucky, who was watching him like he was afraid Steve would disappear. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised, offering Bucky his hand.  Bucky latched onto it instantly.

Eventually, hanging onto Steve's hand, Bucky fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Steve was leaning his elbow on the side of Bucky's bed, head resting on their joined hands, because Bucky was showing no inclination to let go, his broken fingered hand resting on his lap.

Someone cleared their throat. Steve opened his eyes. When he saw who it was he was instantly alert, his body helpfully gifting him with a shot of adrenaline because Pierce was scary as shit.

"I understand you got our Soldier through surgery today."

"I thought that was my job."

Pierce showed his teeth in a brief smile. "It is. Reports say you were hands on." He gave their joined hands a pointed look. "Not getting attached, are you?"

Steve had a feeling his future hung on this moment. "Of course I am." Surprise flashed briefly across Pierce's face before he brought it under control. "The way a dying man's attached to his life support. He's the only reason I'm still alive. I'd be crazy if I wasn't attached." A tilted head invited Steve to continue. "I'm attached to keeping him under control. I'm attached to keeping him calm. I'm attached to keeping him sane. You told me I'd survive if I was valuable, if I didn't follow the rules you'd make him hurt me again." Steve held up his left hand, showing the splinted pinkie finger. "You think I want him to do this to my arm, or my leg, or my _neck_?" Steve's smile was flat. "You're going to kill me eventually, or he is. All I can do is put it off as long as I can." He paused, then added, nodding at their joined hands, "And if you can figure out a way to make him let go of me, please," his tone grew very dry, "let me know."

"Pragmatism. I can't say I was expecting that."

"I don't have much of a choice."

"No, you don't," Pierce agreed.

Steve snorted. "It would be a hell of a lot easier if you'd given him some anaesthetic or some painkillers or _something._ Is there a reason you decided to cut him open and dig around in his gut while he was awake?"

Pierce was a cat staring at a grounded bird, trying to decide whether to kill it or play with it. He obviously came down on the side of play, because he leaned back against Bucky's bed and favoured Steve with an avuncular look, like Steve was a slightly slow child and Pierce was going to do his best to try and help him understand. "You don't think he's human, do you?"

Steve blinked, because what? "Uh, yes?"

"You're wrong. He's not human. Not entirely, not anymore. The reason we don't give him anaesthetic or painkillers is he burns through them too fast to make it worthwhile. No point wasting it on him when he's going to heal before he notices the pain."

"He noticed," Steve said quietly.

Pierce waved a dismissive hand. "It doesn't matter. He's not really human anymore. You need to learn to see him for what he is. He's a," Pierce pursed his lips thoughtfully, "a monster of sorts."

"I know you've Bound him." Steve hadn't been expecting guilt, but he'd thought there'd be some sort of reaction, some sort of acknowledgement that Pierce had used magic to chain Bucky's _soul_.

He was disappointed.

"You should be grateful. It's the only reason he doesn’t kill us all."

"What?"

"Oh yes." Pierce looked…smug, Steve thought, like he was pleased with himself. "He's been given the Blood of HYDRA's god."

"HYDRA's god," Steve said carefully, feeling like he was on a tightrope with a pit of wild dogs on one side and a pit of vipers on the other and both were insane. "You think he's been given the blood of a god."

"What do you know about HYDRA?"

"Apart from the fact that you're evil assholes who Bind people and send them out to kill when you're not kidnapping people off the street?" _Sorry, Bucky._

Pierce chuckled, fully embracing his avuncular role. It was terrifying. Bucky flinched in his sleep. "Apart from that, yes."

"Nothing."

"Back in the days when a sheep was a good investment, HYDRA was a death cult. Our god always wanted perfect order, and He wanted HYDRA to give it to Him by killing everyone. Clerics would infect HYDRA's warriors with god's Blood and they'd go off and slaughter indiscriminately. Can't go around killing everyone that moves. It tends to piss off the neighbours." He smiled, like it amused him. "HYDRA was almost wiped out."

"But you cut off one head, two more grow in its place. We survived in secret, reformed ourselves. Our god's idea of perfect order is everyone dead. That doesn't work for the modern world. But perfect order, that's a beautiful thing. We kept His Blood, used it to make Soldiers like him." He nodded at Bucky. "It's what makes him strong and fast, makes him hard to kill, makes him heal too quickly to bother with anaesthetic. Bound to HYDRA's goals, to obey his handler, he's the perfect killer, HYDRA's perfect Soldier. He's also the last one we've got. There were more, but they all had to be put down." His gaze travelled over Bucky and Steve wanted to throw himself between them. "It wasn't their fault, really. They all go unstable at the end."

Bucky, when he was gone, lost in the depths of the Soldier, was dangerous. Pierce in this sociable mood was chilling. Steve barely held back a shudder.

"HYDRA will bring perfect order. It's what the world needs, it what the world craves. It's what we'll give it. Soon." Pierce's eyes shifted to Steve's and he couldn't have moved if his life, if Bucky's life, had depended on it. "In a way you've brought a tiny part of that order to life, the way you can control him." He smiled, eyes flicking over Steve, and it was a politician's smile, a devil's smile, no soul behind it. "Maybe you'll live long enough to see the new world."

He left and Steve watched him go, didn't take his eyes off his retreating back, like that could somehow keep them safe.

 

* * *

 

Bucky came back to himself slowly. He was aware his right hand was grasping another hand; it brought him all the way up into consciousness.

Steve was dozing, cheek resting on their joined hands. He had blood on his clothes, on his arms, on his hand. That sparked a memory, of Bucky lunging for him, half mad with pain. "Steve?"

Steve's eyes opened and he lifted his head. "Hey, you're awake. How're you feeling?"

He hurt, a dull throbbing ache in his gut. Getting shot had hurt less than them digging around in there after bullet fragments his body had already healed around. He didn't care about that. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, you didn't hurt me."

Bucky searched his face. "Are you lying?"

"I'm not lying."

"I remember grabbing you with this." He flexed the fingers on his metal hand. "And you've got blood all over you."

"It's your blood, not mine." Anger drifted through Steve's voice, across his face, then disappeared, and his tone once more reassuring. "And yeah, you did grab me. But you weren't trying to hurt me." Bucky waited. "They were cutting you open with no anaesthetic. You were in pain and you wanted to hang onto me. You didn't try and hurt me."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." Steve squeezed his hand. "I promise."

"You didn't mind?"

"No," he said, expression softening.

"You should go get cleaned up."

"I'm not leaving 'til you do," he said stubbornly.

That was a tone Bucky had learned not to argue with. He lay back and stared at Steve's hand in his until his eyes closed again.

 

* * *

 

By the next day, Bucky was completely healed. The Blood had done its job. There wasn't even a mark to show where he'd been shot and then cut open. They sent him back to his room and he sent Steve to shower.

Steve didn't argue. Seeing Steve with blood all over him, even knowing it wasn't Steve's blood, seemed to make Bucky uncomfortable. Truth to tell, it didn't do much for Steve. His clothes practically stood up on their own when he took them off and he had to scrub to get himself clean. It was awkward as hell with only one hand, but he managed.

When he came out of the bathroom, Bucky was sitting at the table, two boxes of flavoured textured mush warmed up. He stood up, leaving the chair for Steve. "I thought you'd be hungry."

Steve, not wanting to have an argument about who should take the chair, hopped up to sit on the counter, held out his hand for one of the boxes. "Yeah, Bucky. I could eat." Bucky passed it over and slowly sat back down. Steve couldn’t eat an entire box. They were portioned for Bucky, who ate more than a normal person. Steve figured he must have a higher metabolism, must need more food, more calories, and as had become their habit, he passed his unfinished meal over to Bucky.

When Bucky was finished eating, had tidied away the boxes to be collected by the people who came to feed and water them and change their bedding, Steve, now sitting at the table, watching Bucky, took a deep breath. "Bucky?" When Bucky looked over at him, he said, "There's something I need to tell you." Bucky, leaning against the counter, was wary. "It's nothing bad. Or it might be. I don't know. While you were out, while I was waiting with you, Pierce came by."

"What did he want?"

"Honestly? I think to hear the sound of his own voice. But he told me something about you and I want you to know that I know. And that I don't care." Bucky tensed. Steve went on quickly, "He told me about you being given the blood of their god." Bucky shuddered, face going blank as he turned away. "Bucky, I don't care."

"You should."

"No, I shouldn't. You didn't ask for it. It's just another fucking thing they did to you and I don't care. It doesn't change one thing about how I feel about you. Okay? Not a thing."

"Steve." Bucky's expression faded into pity. "If you mean that, you don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

"What did Pierce tell you?"

"He said it makes you strong, fast, makes you heal quickly, makes you hard to kill."

"What else did he tell you?"

"Nothing else that matters."

Bucky's eyes bored into him and they were cold, but Steve could see fear underneath and his body was tense. "What else?"

"That you were the only one left. That all the others had to be killed, that they," Steve hesitated, went on, "all became unstable."

"What else."

"He said it made you a perfect killer."

"What else."

Steve didn't respond.

"What else, Steve."

"That you were a sort of monster."

"He's right."

"No he's not." Steve shoved to his feet so fast the chair tipped over backwards and crashed to the floor. "He's an evil murdering son of a bitch who turns good men into killers against their will and fucking soul-chains them, Bucky." Bucky's eyes went wide as Steve closed the distance between them. He gently pressed his fingers against Bucky's chest, just a fleeting touch, because he didn't want Bucky to feel trapped, to feel threatened. It should have been a ludicrous thought, when Bucky was so much bigger than Steve, so dangerous, but his eyes were uncertain and Steve could still see the fear. "Anything out of his mouth is going to be a goddamned lie or if he happens to stumble on the truth, because he took a wrong turn somewhere on his way to hell, it's going to be twisted so far around it's going to be able to see its own asshole."

Gradually, Bucky relaxed. His eyes cleared. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You really don't care," he said, an edge of wonder in his voice.

"I really don't care." Steve paused, then said, "No. I care. I care that they did that to you. I'm so angry they did that to you I kind of want to burn the world down around them, but does it change how I see you? No. No," he said again, voice soft. "It doesn't."

"Why?"

"Nothing's changed. You're the same person now you were two days ago. I just know a bit more about why you're you. It means I've got even more reason to hate HYDRA, to hate Pierce, to hate everything they've done to you. And a bit more reason to want to protect you." The corner of Bucky's mouth pulled up. "I know I can't," Steve said. "Doesn't mean I don't want to."

"I understand," Bucky said quietly. "The Blood." He stopped, took a deep breath. "The Blood is the reason I need you. It wants to take over. It wants to take over completely. I have to give in partway, to do what HYDRA makes me do. But once I give in partway it's so much easier to give in completely."

"Does it hurt?"

"No." Bucky's voice was distant and his gaze was a million miles away. "It's peace. All I have to do is kill and everything's peaceful. Nothing hurts. That's all it wants. If I kill it gives me peace."

Steve swallowed and tentatively touched the back of Bucky's hand. He jerked like Steve had brushed him with an electric wire. "When you give in partway, when you go cold, that's when you're the Soldier." Bucky nodded. "But when you're gone, like the night you...found me." Bucky glanced away and Steve touched the back of his hand again, pulling his gaze back. "It's okay. The night you found me. It had taken over?" Bucky nodded again. "Why didn't you kill me?"

"I don't know. I should have. When I'm under the Blood all I want to do is kill. But you didn't act right, you didn't run and you didn't fight and you," he smiled sadly, "you talked to me, you were kind. It reached me. It brought me back."


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky was in full uniform, weapons on full display, standing against the wall. _He_ was a weapon on display, and he wasn't the only one. Several HYDRA operatives were ranged around the room, red-eyed clerics scattered among them.

Pierce was sitting behind his desk, fingers steepled, head cocked ever so slightly to the side. The man on the other side of the desk was very bald, head shining as if it had been waxed, eyes sharply alert behind unassuming glasses. 

"Everything's in place?" Pierce asked, tone making it clear that any answer but yes would have unpleasant repercussions.

"Everything will be in place once the rest of your part's done," Jasper Sitwell, Agent of SHIELD, Operative of HYDRA, replied, not impressed by Pierce's tone.

Pierce sat back, eyes gleaming in something that could have been amusement. "Point taken. Have you got the list of people we need to deal with?"

Sitwell slid a piece of paper across the desk. "These are going to be your main problems, the ones who are going to get involved, ask questions, if SHIELD starts moving outside its established parameters, starts getting involved in new matters, starts getting a little more proactive in dealing with threats."

"Good. This will let us kill two birds with one stone: we remove them in the manner favoured by specific terrorist organisations, raising the threat level, and get rid of the people who would most object to SHIELD finally starting to realise its potential by dealing with those organisations." He smiled faintly. "Among others."

"Then it'll just be Fury and Hill, and I'll get the device into the main server, at which point everything will _actually_ be in place."

Pierce inclined his head.

"How long will it take?"

Pierce looked expectantly at one of the clerics, a young woman who nervously began to explain. "Once it's installed in the main server, it will passively replicate the spell through the network. Any device that connects, wired or wireless, will become infected and then that device will infect any SHIELD network it connects to. As soon as someone touches an infected device, whether it's a phone screen or a computer keyboard, they'll slowly start to absorb the influence by osmosis. Everything's passive, so it can't be detected, which mean it will take time. I'd estimate minimum a month, maximum three months, before we start seeing major changes in behaviour or loyalties."

"And then SHIELD and everyone who works there will be open to HYDRA. You, Agent Sitwell, as one of the few high ranking agents left, will be instrumental in paving the way to making SHIELD what it should always have been: a force for order. It will no longer be wasted doing piecemeal good around the globe while changing absolutely nothing to stem the rising tide of chaos. We will change that, turn SHIELD into the secret arm of HYDRA. We will impose order on the world, and the world will beg us to do it. You will be at the forefront of that change."

Sitwell looked pleased, even though he tried to hide it. "The Soldier's going to be stable enough to finish it?"

"Mmm, good news on that front. We got him a pet and he's settled down."

"What, you bought him a dog?"

"No, a person, but same basic idea."

For one moment, it seemed like Sitwell was going to ask questions, then he obviously thought better of it. "Hail HYDRA," he said as got up to leave.

"Hail HYDRA," Pierce returned. Once he was gone, Pierce turned to the senior cleric. "The spell's still holding? Still undetectable?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have to wonder why he never stopped to ask himself: if we can create a device to broadcast a spell that can open up all of _SHIELD_ to HYDRA control if we didn't do the same to him." Pierce shook his head. "No, it makes much more sense that he just woke up one day and decided to join us."

"Sir, isn't that a good thing?"

"Oh, there's no denying it's a good thing. I can still be a little disappointed in him."

 

* * *

 

Steve was so used to people walking into their room he didn't even look up from what he was working on.  He was sitting at the table, sketching Bucky, and he watched Bucky out of the corner of his eye as the guy—Smith was his name, Steve thought, not that he really cared—spoke to him, gave him his orders. Watched as he retrieved his uniform from the cupboard and went into the bathroom to change.

Steve had worked out a while ago he did that for Steve. If Steve hadn't been there, he was certain Bucky would have just stripped off because he knew no one else would care. Steve didn't think anyone in HYDRA saw Bucky as a person. Hell, no in HYDRA knew _Bucky_ existed; they only knew the Soldier and the Soldier definitely wasn't a person to them.

He came out in his uniform, already moving differently, and stood by the door.

"You're coming with us, goat-boy," Smith said, gesturing at Steve.

"Call me goat-boy one more time and see what happens," Steve said calmly, because he was toeing the line for Bucky, he was being good for Bucky, but he had limits. He didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge Smith beyond that single sentence. Steve could practically feel Bucky's worry radiating through the room, but he knew no one else could. To everyone else, he was a cold, emotionless killer.

There was a charged moment of silence.

"What the hell do you think you can do to me?" There was genuine curiosity in Smith's voice, like Steve was a dog who'd done an unexpected trick.

Steve slowly turned his head, met Smith's eyes, and he knew his own were cold. His own style was hot, throwing himself into every fight with fists out and feet flying, but that wouldn't work here. Right now he was doing his best to channel Bucky...no, to channel the _Soldier_. "Say it again and find out."

Another charged moment of silence. Smith studied Steve, taking in his skinny frame, his short stature. It could have gone either way, then suddenly Smith barked a laugh. "Fair enough. _Rogers_ , you're coming with us."

Steve stood up. "You need back up? A dozen trained killers and the Soldier aren't enough?" he asked dryly. "You need me to help you out?"

"This mission's out of town and you're no good to us if he goes postal and you’re hundreds of miles away." Smith tossed a pile of black at Steve. "Get changed." Steve thought of arguing, but he risked a look at Bucky, who gave a brief shake of his head, and satisfied with one victory for the day, he went into the bathroom to change. It was tight as well as black, with what Steve thought were Kevlar panels in strategic places. It was awkward and uncomfortable, not quite form-fitting, but still left him a lot more exposed than he was used to being. When Bucky saw it, his posture eased slightly. Steve guessed it was because of the Kevlar.

They wound up in the back of a semi-trailer, filled with complicated electronics and magic that were watched over by a tech and what Steve now knew was a cleric of HYDRA's god—with the same disturbing red eyes as the one who'd tested Steve his first night in the compound.

There was a van parked in the back of the trailer, benches along the trailer's sides. Steve had been right when he'd guessed there'd be a team, but they paid no attention to Bucky and, apart from a few looks at Steve, some curious, a few contemptuous, a few Steve didn't know how to read, their disregard for Bucky extended to him.

Bucky was a weapon they didn't need yet; Steve a possibly extraneous bit of equipment packaged with their weapon. They might need him, they might not. It all depended on how their weapon performed.

Bucky pointed him in the direction of a bench, out of the way of the tech and the magic and the team, waited until Steve was settled then sat between him and the rest of the people in the trailer. They exchanged a look and Bucky grimaced. They both knew it was pointless, Bucky wasn't allowed to protect him, but Steve gave him a small smile anyway. "How long?" he asked.

"Seven or eight hours."

"Right." Steve looked around the trailer and asked the question he didn't want to, the question he didn't need to. "And when we get there?" Bucky's eyes were cool as they met Steve's. "Right," he said again, more quietly. After a few minutes silence he asked, keeping his voice low, "What can I do?"

Bucky startled slightly. "What?"

"What can I do to make this better? If there is anything."

"Nothing, Steve. There's nothing."

Steve stood and moved to sit on the other side of Bucky, so he was between him and everyone else.  Bucky watched him and after a second a smile ghosted across his face and he shook his head. It wasn't much, but Steve would take it. "Will it be easier or harder if I talk to you?"

Bucky tipped his head forward, watching his hands as he flexed his fingers. Thinking. Finally, he said, "Harder." Steve nodded, accepting it, but Bucky continued, "But will you do it anyway? I'll tell you when I need you to stop."

"I can do that." Steve shifted sideways, not quite close enough to touch Bucky, but close enough nothing wider than a piece of paper would fit between them, and he started talking. Low and soft, telling Bucky the story of when he was a kid and he caught two older boys trying to tie a firecracker to a puppy's tail in an alley. How he'd taken the puppy home, along with a broken nose and a black eye.

He kept up the stories, most of them involving Steve and alleys when someone bigger than him decided to pick on someone smaller than them. Some of the stories weren't exactly _Steve Rogers shining moments of glory_ , but he didn't mind telling them to Bucky.

Steve didn't notice Smith watching him, didn't notice the frown on his face.

Five hours in, Bucky asked him to stop talking, asked Steve to move farther away. Six hours in, Smith came to retrieve him, leaving Steve alone on the stretch of bench. When the semi-trailer stopped and the team relocated to the van, Bucky was gone, the Soldier, cold and distant, in his place. Smith handcuffed Steve to the interior of the van. Bucky didn't react. Steve raised a sardonic eyebrow at Smith.

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't try and escape," Smith said, voice laced with sarcasm. "Because you're so loyal to HYDRA."

Steve shrugged and kept his eyes on Bucky.

They drove for another hour, pulling into a parking lot. Bucky left the van, melting into the darkness, but the cleric sent a Scryer up to track him, Smith watching his progress on a monitor. Steve tried not to think about what he must be seeing, what he must be watching.

Time ticked past, Steve staring at the cuff on his wrist, wondering if he'd be able to wiggle out of it.

Suddenly, Smith grabbed his shoulder and dragged him over, stretching his arm out painfully and making his finger throb. "Watch."

Steve was ready to fight him, to pull back, to...he wasn't sure what, but he was caught by the picture on the screen. It had the faint golden tinge that all scryed pictures had, the touch of fuzziness, but the colours were true-to-life, without the green of mundane night vision. There was no sound, but he could see Bucky, could see what he was doing, could see where he was.

It was a house, expensive, with gardens so extensive they should properly be called grounds, whoever lived there important enough or rich enough or afraid enough to have guards. As Steve watched, Bucky moved silently up behind one and slit her throat.

The red of the blood was bright and clean. Steve's stomach clenched. Bucky didn't react, just let the body fall silently to the ground and kept moving.

He was a predator, slipping through the darkness, the Scryer undetectable over his shoulder. Three more guards went down, each with their throat cut, and the security system was disabled. The cleric moved up behind Steve, there was a burst of heat, the screen flashed red, and the household wards were burnt out, no more proof against HYDRA than the mundane protections had been.

Steve swallowed. He'd seen the aftermath of this. He'd never thought he'd actually see Bucky, see the _Soldier_ at work—it was the Soldier, not Bucky. Bucky wouldn't do this, wouldn't do any of this, he told himself as two more guards went down, one with a slit throat, the Soldier wielding the knife in his right hand while he crushed the throat of the other in his left. It was so fast neither had time to cry out. These two were different, were dressed differently, were wearing distinct uniforms, and Steve realised he recognised the insignia. He wasn't sure what it was, but he _knew_ it. 

The Soldier was moving faster now, heading upstairs, taking them two at a time, and there were people with guns waiting, firing at him, and Steve gaped as he deflected the bullets with his metal hand, one rebounding into the uniformed body of the shooter. The Soldier snatched the other one up and snapped his neck. Steve got a better look at the insignia and it was SHIELD. That was SHIELD's insignia. Whoever the Solider was after was a good guy, not that he'd had any doubt.

There were two more shooters, but the Soldier was too fast, was almost dodging their bullets, deflecting the rest with his metal hand. He used his knives again, threw one, hitting a shooter in the eye, and slashed the other across the throat.

She seemed to be the last. He kicked in the door behind her to reveal a middle aged man, a gun clasped in his shaking hands. The Soldier didn't hesitate. He crossed the room and ripped it out of his hands, threw it away.

Every other kill had been quick. Had been almost merciful. This was not quick. The Soldier held him in place with his right hand and beat him to death with his metal fist. Steve felt bile rise in his gut. "If you puke, I'll make you eat it," Smith said flatly. Steve believed him. He kept watching. He knew someone had ordered him to kill this way. He never would have chosen to do this.

Steve knew Bucky wasn't going to come back. The Soldier was going to go over the edge. Beating a man to death was a long way from cutting someone's throat. He wanted to clench his fists and rage that he could think that, that he was living a life where he could make that distinction, but it was the truth.

When the man stopped moving, the Soldier dropped him. Stared down at the body. Then he opened the window and jumped out, slipping through the grounds to scale a stone wall, dropping to the other side.

"You've lost him," Steve said flatly.

"What?"

"You've lost him." Fury curled into his gut, made his voice shake. "You made him beat a man to death and you've lost him, so you better figure out where the hell he's going."

"You can't know that."

"I have one goddamn job to do and that's _him._ I know what I'm talking about."

"Sir, he's not coming back," the tech said cautiously. "He's running."

"Shit." Smith watched the monitor, which showed the Soldier, not running, but moving slowly, cautiously, through a wooded area, cultivated not wild. "Track him and plot an intercept course. We need to get him the hell out of here while we can."

With the Scryer up, he was easy to track. He was working his way through a heavily wooded park. They found a safe place for the van and threw civilian clothes over their uniforms, found things that didn't hang on Steve too badly, unlocked his cuffs and dragged him out of the van. Steve wasn't fighting. Steve _wanted_ to get to Bucky, get to him before he ran into someone in the park and killed them.

They made their way into the park, the cleric dropping a no-see spell over them to block them from cameras and casual observation, and when they were close to the Soldier's path, they shoved Steve out to intercept him. Smith had his gun trained on Steve. "If you try and run, I'll drop you. Don't think you can get away." Steve gave him the finger and walked out to wait for the Soldier.

He didn't have to wait long.

His hands were covered in blood, his face in blood spatter. His eyes were distant and cold. Steve felt a curl of fear travel up his spine when his eyes locked onto Steve, because he knew someday this might not work. Someday, he might die. And if that day came, when Bucky finally came back to himself, Steve knew he'd never be okay.

So Steve couldn't fail.

He wouldn't fail.

Just like he'd started toeing the line for Bucky, he'd make this work—for Bucky.

"There you are," he called softly. "I've been worried. I thought I lost you." The Soldier stayed where he was. "Can you come here? It's hard to talk to you when you're way over there." Steve took a deep breath and held out his hand.

As always, his speed was startling. One moment, he was twenty feet away, the next he was _right there_ in front of Steve, staring at his hand. He didn't touch Steve, didn't grab him. Steve wiggled his fingers. "You could grab hold of this if you wanted to. It seemed to make you feel better after those assholes decided you weren't worth anaesthetic, just because you'd need a lot of it." His voice was soft and soothing and kind; he knew his words didn't matter much right now, even if Bucky would maybe remember them later.

Bucky reached out, then caught a glimpse of his hand which was covered in blood and snatched it away. His eyes went colder and he took a step back. Steve realised he was going to have to do something different. "Okay, so things aren't the same this time. I swear, if I find out who decided that was how you had to kill him? I'm going to kill them. I really am," he said soothingly, kindly. "I'm going to touch you now, so if you could not snap and kill me, that'd be great."

Steve slowly stretched out his hand and wrapped it around the Soldier's right arm, careful of his healing finger. Leather creaked under his grip. It was a mirror of what the Soldier usually did to him. He tensed under Steve's touch but didn't pull away. "Good sign, good job. You're safe, you know. You know I won't hurt you. You know I'd do anything I could to keep you safe. I know you know that." He brought his other arm up slowly, testing the waters, and pressed his hand against the Soldier's chest. "So come back." He stepped closer. "I know you're in there. Come back to me." 

It wasn't explosive. It was slow, gradual, Bucky bleeding back into the Soldier's eyes. "Steve."

"There you are," Steve said softly.

"Did I?"

"You didn't hurt me. You didn't even touch me this time."

Bucky let out a relieved breath, glanced down and saw his bloody hands, and Steve saw the cold start to fade back in.

"Hey, don't look," he said firmly. Bucky lifted his eyes back to Steve's. "Better. Just keep looking at me. We're going back to the van and I'll fix it. All right?"

Bucky pulled in a shallow breath, another, and then he nodded. Steve built a wall in his head, put the killings and the blood on one side of it and Bucky on the other, and threaded his fingers through the fingers of Bucky's right hand. He ignored the blood spatter, kept it safely on the other side of the wall, and led him towards the waiting team. They were spooked. Smith had put his gun away. No one said anything, just watched the two of them warily. When they reached the van Steve demanded and received a bottle of water.

While they drove back to the semi-trailer, he made Bucky sit and he sat in front of him, pulled off the shirt they'd given him to cover the black gear and used it and the water to clean the blood—and hair and pieces of bone—from his metal hand. Then cleaned the blood spatter from Bucky's right hand. Then the blood spatters from his face.

Bucky kept his eyes fixed on Steve's face the entire time. When Steve was done, he realised at some point the van had been driven back onto the semi-trailer, which was moving, and they were alone. "I guess we're on the way back."

"Guess so."

"What do you want to do now?"

Bucky shook his head.

"You usually sleep after a mission. Think you can?"

"I don't know."

"Here." Steve shuffled back to lean against the van wall. "Just this once, you can use me as a pillow." Bucky eyed him uncertainly and Steve rolled his eyes. "Come on, once in a lifetime offer. Despite my bony appearance, I'm very comfortable," he said. When Bucky continued to hesitate, he added, "You heard my stories. You don't want to insult me and end up having to take this outside."

A tiny smile that looked like it didn't know what it was doing there appeared briefly on Bucky's face. "No, I'd hate to make you mad."

Steve patted his thigh. "Come on, put your head down. I know you're exhausted." Gingerly, tentatively, Bucky lay down, body curled tightly as he rested his cheek on Steve's thigh, both hands tucked against his chest. "Hey, you got it right first try." Bucky huffed and some of the tension went out of him. "Get some sleep."

His eyes closed. After a minute, Steve gently brushed the hair out of his face. When Bucky went still under his touch, he froze; when Bucky relaxed even more, he kept running his fingers through Bucky's hair.

They stayed in the van, Bucky asleep in Steve's lap, until they returned to the compound. Steve didn't close his eyes, knowing he'd see the murders replaying themselves over and over again. They didn't want to stay behind the wall. He knew Bucky wasn't responsible, knew Bucky wasn't at fault, but it didn't make it any easier to have watched him slaughter those people. To have watched those people killed, knowing they were innocents. Knowing, in the case of SHIELD, they were _protectors_ of innocents.

To know that part of him had been hoping they'd win, that they'd take the Soldier—who was also Bucky—down, if they could do it without killing him, because HYDRA was evil. Because anything HYDRA wanted to achieve was going to be evil. To feel torn, because at the same time he wanted HYDRA to lose, he didn't want anything to happen to Bucky.

 

* * *

 

After that, Steve became a fixture on Bucky's missions. Anytime there was a team, Steve was part of it. His presence seemed to become part of Bucky's, like he was part of Bucky's uniform, part of Bucky's arsenal. When they brought Bucky, they brought Steve. They never gave him a chance to escape. He spent a lot of time handcuffed to the inside of nondescript vans.

No one made him watch again, and he wondered if it was cowardly that he was grateful. 

Whether he had to go out and intercept the Soldier depended on _how_ they made him kill. More than once, after Steve went out and brought him back, always in the sights of someone's gun, he'd sit in the back of the van and carefully clean the blood off Bucky's hands.

More than once after a mission, Bucky would fall asleep with his head in Steve's lap. Steve suspected Bucky's need to sleep after killing had almost nothing to do with being tired and everything to do with needing to escape from what he'd been made to do. That his dragging exhaustion was his mind's way of putting some distance between himself and the death he'd been forced to deal out.

Steve didn't mind helping him get there.

The looks the teams would give him were a little disgusted, a touch awed, a bit spooked, like they didn't understand why Steve was still alive. But they always looked; they always watched. Once, Steve had caught one sneakily taking a video when he'd turned around from bringing Bucky back to himself.

He wondered sometimes if this was how the lion tamer at the circus felt, when the crowds would lean in and cheer. He wondered if the lion tamer knew the crowds would be just as happy, maybe happier, to see the lion turn on him and rip him to pieces as to see the lion jump through a flaming hoop.

Steve didn't worry much about being ripped to pieces anymore. When Bucky was the Soldier he was cold and merciless and murder-on-command; when he slipped over the edge all he wanted was the kill—no matter what, Steve thought he could bring him back safely.

He knew Bucky wasn't going to hurt him, not without orders, but there was no real safety. Not for either of them, but he wasn't really worried about _him_ ; somewhere along the line, he realised, his focus had shifted entirely to protecting Bucky, and he was willing to give just about anything to make that happen.


	9. Chapter 9

Pierce had summoned him. In uniform, but unarmed.

It wasn't normal. It worried him.

"Follow me."

Bucky followed Pierce as they walked deeper into the compound, down a long narrow hallway he'd never seen, into a room with walls several feet thick. Two rooms, he realised. There was a massive door in the wall, visible past the array of red-eyed clerics. A rune-carved stone plinth dominated the centre of the room. It glimmered with strange shadows that seemed to twist and dance independently of the light in the room, shadows that seemed to stretch long fingers towards the massive door. Perched on top of the plinth was a piece of computer hardware, part of a server, all gleaming metal and circuits.

"Are we ready?" A cleric nodded. "Good." Pierce turned to Bucky, gesturing at the cleric. "Take these." The cleric held out two long curved knives, blades glowing a sickly blue. Bucky took them obediently; he had no choice. "Go into that room. Kill everyone in there as slowly and bloodily as you can."

"Why?" It burst out of him, driven by that spot under his heart, before he could stop himself.

For one moment, he thought Pierce would punish him. After a long tense moment, he answered, "This is the start of the new order, the start of reshaping the world. You can't change the world without power. You don't get power without sacrifices. Go."

Bucky slowly approached the door, waited as the complicated locks were disengaged. As he slipped through the narrow crack that was pulled open for him he heard a cleric ask, "What if he loses it?"

"That used to be a bomb shelter, back from when the worst people were worried about was nuclear war. It'll hold him. I'll send for Rogers. He'll either bring him back or die. If he dies, we'll re-evaluate. Worst case scenario, we fill this room with cement and move on with our lives," Pierce answered as the door was pushed shut behind him.

The room was full of people. He recognised most of them. They were all HYDRA. They were milling around, confused, in the dim light. Awareness of his presence rippled through them and they turned to face him.

Some were defiant. Some were afraid. Some resigned.

They might not know why they were here—there were no volunteers for this sacrifice—but they knew why he was there.

He let go of Bucky. Bucky couldn't do this.

The Soldier's hands tightened on the curved blades, the sickly blue glow dripping down over his skin, reflecting off the metal. He fought not to rise into the Blood. If he gave in, they'd lock Steve in here with him and he thought, if that happened, this could be the time he'd kill him.

He stepped forward, knives raised, and began.

Outside the room, the clerics channelled power into the circuits which glowed incandescent as magic flooded the room, tainting the air with the tang of electricity and the bitter ash of blood magic.

Inside the room, blood painted the walls red and the floor grew slick and slippery as the Soldier slowly carved his way through the beating hearts. Some tried to fight. He took them first. Slowly. Bloodily. He could not disobey.

HYDRA's god was a god of death. He would have been pleased by the offerings made to Him in that room.

The Soldier was drenched in blood, dripping with it. It soaked through the leather, ran under his uniform, down the channels of his metal arm, matted his hair. When no one moved, when every heart had stopped beating, he stood in the middle of the room, hands at his sides, curved blades held loosely, and he waited.

Waited for instructions, waited for this to end.

They left him standing there long enough the blood began to dry. Eventually the door opened. After a cautious few seconds, a cleric gestured him out. He walked out of the room, boots sticking to the floor with each step, and stopped.

Pierce didn't look up from examining the gleaming piece of hardware. "Drop the knives."

He opened his hands and they hit the ground with a dull clatter.

"Return to your room."

He went.

 

* * *

 

The door opened and closed.

Steve looked up.

Even on the black of Bucky's uniform, Steve could see the blood. Bucky was practically soaked in it. It was caked on his metal arm, blood painting each ridge a dull, brownish red. His hair was twisted into mats, glued in spots to his head.

His eyes were vacant.

He was still. Silent. Unmoving.

Despite everything they'd been through, Steve couldn't stop a curl of apprehension. What had Bucky done to be covered in that much blood? He set aside his pad of paper. Set down the pencil. Cautiously rose to his feet. Bucky's eyes didn't track him. That...wasn't good. "Bucky?"

No reaction.

He crossed the floor cautiously, carefully, telegraphing each movement, to stand in front of him. This close he could _smell_ the blood, an iron tang that made him want to turn away.

Bucky and blood. He remembered in the back of the van, washing the blood from his hands, from his face. All those missions, washing away the blood. This was beyond a shirt and a water bottle. _Okay, Steve. Deal with this, because Bucky can't. He needs you._

"I'm going to touch you." He waited, but there was still no reaction. Not sure if he was going to come out the other side of this, he shifted closer and touched the front of Bucky's uniform. It was harder than it should have been, his still taped finger getting in the way, but he managed. Checking in with Bucky as he went, eyes flicking up to see if there was any change, keeping up a slow, steady stream of words, narrating everything he was doing, he undid the straps, got him out of the belt, the jacket. Even his undershirt was bloody, Steve could see it went down to his skin.

"What happened to you," he murmured. "Bucky, what did they make you do?" Someone had sent him down here like this. How had he held it together long enough to get here?

 _Shit._ Steve knew what he was going to have to do. "If you could come back now, that would be great, because I don't think either of us are going to like what I'm thinking." Steve gently touched Bucky's face, remembering the hellish surgery. There might have been a flicker in Bucky's eyes, but if so it wasn't enough to bring him back.

"Right." Bucky was non-responsive but cooperative. Steve got his boots off, his socks off, pulled the undershirt over his head, then, with a promise to Bucky that he had only his best interest at heart, unbuckled his pants and pulled them off along with his underwear.

When Bucky was naked Steve carefully kept his eyes averted as much as possible, but he still saw that blood had soaked through Bucky's pants, was smeared across his legs, his chest. Steve kicked his uniform into the corner, then took Bucky by the hand and led him to the bathroom. He never stopped talking, kept up the gentle stream of words, as he turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, then stopped. Took a deep breath and stripped off his shirt and kicked off his socks. One of them with no pants was already too much.

"Come on, it's warm and safe and I can get that blood off you, get it out of your arm, out of your hair." He took Bucky by the hand again, led him into the shower, positioned him under the spray. A fine tremor ran through him, but otherwise he didn't react. The water running down the drain was tinged with red. Steve resolutely looked away, picked up the soap and the washcloth and started washing the blood off Bucky's skin. He had to scrub at the dried blood in places to get him clean.

He tried not to look, kept his eyes turned away as much as possible from the twisted skin and scars where Bucky's metal arm joined his body. Not because they were ugly; because it wasn't Bucky's choice that Steve see them. As he worked his way down Bucky's body, as he crouched to wash Bucky's thighs, his calves, he could only give Bucky so much modesty—it was more important to get him clean.

He stood and set the soap and washcloth down to curl his fingers around the back of Bucky's neck. "I hope you forgive me for this," he said quietly, gently pulling Bucky's head down so he could reach his hair, pushing his fingers through the mats, gently massaging his scalp, washing the blood away. "Because I stripped you naked when you couldn't say no and that's kind of unforgivable, even if I had good—" He was interrupted by an explosive gasp as Bucky came back. His eyes met Steve's, and they both stilled, frozen. An apology was on Steve's lips, but before he could speak Bucky lunged at him.

A momentary flash of fear ripped through him, gone as fast as lightning, because Bucky didn't hurt him. Bucky wouldn't hurt him, he _knew_ that. Bucky _clung_ to him; buried his face in Steve's shoulder and hung on. Steve could feel him being careful, but he wasn't being gentle; Steve could feel every individual plate of his metal arm against the skin of his back, and his fingers were digging in. It was desperation. Steve didn't hesitate; he wrapped his arms around Bucky's naked back and held him as hard as he could. Bucky shuddered under the touch. "It's okay," Steve said softly. "It's okay."

Bucky shook his head slowly and pressed his face into Steve's neck. The spray was pouring down over both of them, creating a cocoon of warmth, of safety, however fragile. Steve rested his forehead against Bucky's shoulder. "It's not," Bucky said against Steve's skin. "I don't think it'll ever be okay again." Bucky hung on even tighter.

Steve believed him. "Do you want to tell me?" he asked, even though he knew he didn't want to know.

Bucky choked off a pained laugh. "No. I can't. Even if I could I wouldn't. I don't want to remember."

"But you're back. I didn't know if you were going to come back."

"I didn't go away, not all the way. I knew if I did, they'd bring you. I knew if they brought you, there was a good chance I'd kill you. I held on."

Steve let out a shuddering breath and tried to pull Bucky closer. There wasn't anything he could say. All he could do was run a careful hand down Bucky's spine and hold onto him. He was realising something. Despite the fact that something terrible had happened tonight—to Bucky, to other people using Bucky's hands—holding Bucky seemed to meet some soul-deep need he didn't know he'd had. Even with Bucky very, awkwardly naked, even with Steve having gotten him that way without his consent. "I'm sorry about your clothes," he said. "It was the only way to—" He stopped.

"To get the blood off," Bucky finished, fingers curling against Steve's back.

"To get the blood off," Steve agreed. "I wouldn't have done it otherwise, not when you're like that, when you're..." He trailed off, because he didn't know what the right words were. Helpless was wrong, when Bucky could kill him in an instant, but it felt close.

"Do whatever you need to do. I trust you."

The world went still as Steve processed that, tried to grasp the enormity of what Bucky had just given him. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around it, around how huge it was.  

Bucky leaned back, eyes uncertain, peering down at Steve through wet tendrils of hair. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, Bucky." Steve touched his face. "It's okay."

Bucky's eyes were deep as he looked down at Steve and he leaned into Steve's hand, let his eyes slip shut. Then he took a deep breath and, slowly, reluctantly, he let go. Took a step back. He seemed entirely unconscious of his nudity, of the scars that warped his skin. Steve did his best to copy his attitude, then realised, after everything they'd been through, he really _didn't_ care. "I think this is as clean as I'm going to get."

Steve cast an eye over him, over his metal arm. "Hang on," he said, and used the washcloth to scrub at the plates under his elbow, dislodging the last of the caked-on blood. Bucky kept his eyes on Steve's face. "There."

Bucky touched his shoulder then stepped out of the shower as Steve turned off the water. He was wrapping a towel around himself as Steve slopped out to join him, making a face at his dripping pants. The tiniest smile, more a possibility than the actual thing, crossed Bucky's face. "Wait here." He walked out of the bathroom and came back with Steve's pyjamas.

"Thanks."

Bucky nodded and left the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him. Steve struggled out of his wet clothes, threw them over the shower rail to deal with tomorrow, dried himself and changed into his PJs. When he walked out and saw Bucky wearing the cotton pants and shirt he usually slept in, sitting in his blankets across the door, something snapped. "No."

Exhausted, Bucky slumped against the door. "Please don't make me fight with you. Not tonight. Just take the bed."

"That's not what I meant." He walked over and held out his hand to Bucky. Who stared at it, then up at Steve in confusion. "Take my hand."

"Why?"

"Trust me."

Slowly, he closed his fingers around Steve's. Steve tugged gently and Bucky rose to his feet. Steve led him to the bed. "Lie down."

"I told you—"

"We're going to share." Bucky's body went rigid. Steve gentled his voice, spoke softly and kindly, like he did when Bucky came back from missions. "We're going to share, and you're going to lie down and you're going to let me, I hope you're going to let me, but I won't if you don't want me to, hold onto you." He paused, giving Bucky a chance to speak, but he said nothing, his hand lying loose in Steve's. "So I can keep you safe. And I know we're not safe and it's only an illusion, but for one night, let me at least pretend." He squeezed Bucky's hand. "Let me pretend I can keep you safe."

"Steve."

"Please."

"Why?" Bucky's voice was hollow. "I was soaked in blood. You should be afraid of me, you should hate me because of what I can do, what I've done, not want to _keep me safe_."

"Maybe, but I've never been very good at doing what I'm supposed to do. And _you_ aren't the things you can do. You aren't the things they've forced you to do. I know if you had a choice you wouldn't do them. I'm not afraid of you. I will never be afraid of you."

"Steve..." Bucky said quietly, barely audible. Steve waited patiently. "Okay."

"Get into bed, I'll get the lights."

When Steve climbed into bed, Bucky was lying with his back to him and he was tense. Steve gently pressed his fingers against Bucky's back. "You sure?" He felt Bucky nod. Steve shifted closer, curving his body around Bucky's, pressed his forehead against Bucky's shoulder, wrapped his arm around Bucky's waist. He bent his elbow, let his hand rest against Bucky's chest. Tentatively, Bucky touched his arm, like he was asking permission. When Steve said, "Go ahead," he spread his fingers and let them close around Steve's arm. Slowly, gradually, muscle by muscle, Bucky relaxed, until he was pliant against Steve. "Sleep, Bucky. I've got you. It's okay."

It wasn't okay. Whatever Bucky had done tonight, whatever they had made him do, it wasn't okay. Not for Bucky, not for Steve, not for whatever plans HYDRA had to move the world closer to Pierce's idea of perfect order. But for this moment, right here, with Bucky safe in his arms, the sound of Bucky's breathing filling the air and Bucky's warmth soaking into his skin, Steve could pretend. They could both pretend.

 

* * *

 

There was no more sleeping on the floor after that.

At least, not usually. Bucky couldn't always handle being that close after a mission. Sometimes he needed to sit next to the bed for a few hours before he could share. Most of the time, though, it was both of them together. When it _wasn't_ after a mission, Bucky would always let Steve curl right around him. Let Steve wrap him up tight and pretend he could keep him safe. Steve knew it wasn't really _let_ , like Bucky was doing him a favour. It was _want_ , Bucky wanted him to. Steve wanted it right back.

Bucky was always exhausted after missions, needed to sleep. Even if it was the middle of the day and Steve wasn't tired he'd lie down behind Bucky and hold him as tight as he could while Bucky fell asleep.  There were times Bucky couldn't have Steve holding him right away but still wanted him close. Steve would lie down next to him with a hand on his shoulder or on his ribs, whatever Bucky wanted, while Bucky drifted off. Eventually, inevitably, he'd ease enough to turn to Steve and Steve would wrap him up in his arms. 

Steve needed it, too. It was as if that first night—after the blood, when Bucky had clung to him in the shower and then taken his hand and trusted Steve to hold him—had opened the door to something he hadn't known was there. 

He was pretty sure he loved Bucky. He didn't think there was another word for what he was feeling.

It was too tangled and messy, the situation too intense, he didn't know if there was anything else there, didn't know if there was anything that might be _in love_ as well. He wasn't going to think about it and he didn't think it mattered. He loved Bucky, he was certain, and that was huge enough without worrying if there was anything else underneath it. And Bucky deserved to be loved. Steve wanted to tell him, but he wasn't really sure how he'd say it, wasn't really sure how Bucky would react, so he kept it to himself. But he didn't need to say it out loud to know that he loved him.


	10. Chapter 10

"Explain to me how this is possible."

Steve wasn't sure what he was doing here. Bucky had been summoned and he'd been brought along, as if the two were joined at the hip and it would take a specific order _not_ to bring Steve. They were standing in Pierce's office as Pierce, the only way Steve could describe it, very genteelly lost his mind. 

"Explain to me how this can happen. Because you assured me this was foolproof. You assured me that the spell could not be broken."

"Sir." The hapless cleric who was facing Pierce looked like he was hoping their god would decide to take him right now. "Sir, we can't account for _everything_. And we didn't account for him _dying._ No one could account for that."

"Is that so."

Steve could have warned him that was the wrong tack to take. He was pretty sure the cleric was going to get his wish very soon and meet his god in the most permanent way possible.

"If Agent Sitwell is dead, explain to me how he's walking around, no longer loyal to HYDRA, knowing all our secrets? _"_

"He got better?"

"Kill him," Pierce said to Bucky. Steve didn't watch as Bucky stepped forward and snapped the man's neck. "Get rid of it." Two guards came forward to remove the corpse. Bucky returned to stand next to Steve, closer than he'd been before, and Steve surreptitiously pressed two fingers against his arm. "Can someone sensible explain what happened?"

A second cleric stepped forward. "Last night Agent Sitwell's heart stopped for an unknown amount of time, apparently as a result of an extreme allergic reaction to shellfish. In the time he was technically dead, the control spell broke. When he recovered, the spell did not."

"Thank you. You can continue to live." Pierce's gaze shifted to Bucky. "Kill Sitwell before he can spill his guts to SHIELD. Interrogate him first if you can, but if not, just kill him. Your first priority is his death. Second priority is your survival. Die if you have to, but kill him."

 

* * *

 

Steve wondered if they'd meant to bring him or if he was now such a part of Bucky that it was automatic. They were in another nondescript van, tracking Sitwell down. Steve was handcuffed to the side of the van, and based on what Pierce had said and what he'd picked up, he was just about praying Sitwell made it to wherever he thought he was going. Looking at the team arrayed against him, Bucky already gone over into the Soldier, he was pretty sure he wasn't going to make it.

They were close, whatever tracker HYDRA had planted on him leading them unerringly to their target.

The cleric sent a Scryer up and Steve craned his neck until he could see the screen. "There he is," the cleric muttered as Sitwell came into view, hunched over the steering wheel of his car, face a mask of determination. He was parked in the middle of a bridge. There was a gun on the passenger seat beside him, another on his lap. One in his hand.

Steve silently wished him luck.

The van stopped. The Soldier went out the door, another Scryer at his shoulder, moving fast and silent. Steve's heart jumped into his throat as he put one hand on the bridge railing and jumped, but the Scryer showed he'd caught himself, was moving hand over hand _under_ the bridge towards Sitwell's car. _Sitwell, look out. Drive. Run._

It was too late. With one smooth movement, the Soldier came up over the side of the bridge and ripped the door off Sitwell's car, threw it into the rushing river below, reached, grabbing for Sitwell, but he was already moving, was out the door, rolling across the bridge. The Soldier leapt onto the roof, raised his guns, and another car came screaming onto the bridge, slammed into Sitwell's, knocking the Soldier's aim off.

Everything after that was a blur, the Scryer darting around, trying to follow what was happening, Steve trying to keep up. A redheaded woman, a gun in each hand, and a man with a bow piled out of the new car as the Soldier shot the hell out of it. He dropped his guns, pulled new ones, aimed for Sitwell. The van Steve was in lurched into gear as the driver sped forward, spinning to block one end of the bridge and provide cover. The team jumped out. Steve and the cleric were the only ones left in the van.

Steve's eyes found the Soldier once more. He and the redhead were joined in a whirling dance of brutal death, her thighs locked around his neck. The man with the bow was calmly loosing arrows at the HYDRA team and one after another they were falling. The cleric swore and the screen dulled as he twisted his hands and leapt out the door, jumping onto the bridge. A dull echo filling Steve's ear and a greasy feeling in the air let him know the cleric had raised a shield around the van.

The screen brightened and the redhead was flying towards the edge of the bridge. She caught the railing with one foot, twisted like a cat and used her momentum to launch herself back towards Sitwell, who was firing at the Soldier. His bullets bounced off the metal arm. The redhead reached Sitwell, slammed a hand down on him, dragged him across the bridge at the same time as the Soldier fired. There was a flash of green and Sitwell screamed as his torso was ripped apart, turned into a broken bloody mess.

Steve wanted to scream along with him. God, he'd wanted him to live, to escape. To stop HYDRA. He'd been the only hope, the only chance.

The redhead stared down at Sitwell's body, then her entire focus shifted to the Soldier and she launched herself at him, an arrow accompanying her before they returned to picking off HYDRA's operatives. _Trying_ to pick them off. The arrows were bouncing off the shield around the van as the Soldier met the redhead's charge. They were too fast, a blur of motion, Steve couldn't follow them. He thought she might stand a chance of taking him down and he didn't know whether to hope she could. Or to hope she'd fail. He didn't know whether she'd kill him or try and take him into custody. He didn't know if the Soldier could let himself be taken prisoner or if he'd have to fight to the death. 

He was distracted by a painful pop. A muttered, "Magic arrow," from the cleric told him what had happened; the shield was down, taken out by a pre-loaded spell, launched from an arrow. The remaining Hydra operatives, who'd thought they were safe behind the shield, rapidly followed.

There was a pained grunt and the screen started to fade. The cleric must have been hit and his Scryers were dying with him. Apart from the Soldier, the redhead and the man with the bow, once he was gone that would make Steve the last person alive.

A flicker of movement in the dying screen caught his eye. Sitwell was moving. Not much, just enough to catch his attention. Through the dulling grey, he could see the broken bloody mess of his torso was gone. There was blood pumping out of his shoulder, but he was alive.

Illusion. That green flare must have been an illusion. The redhead must have slammed it into place when the Soldier had fired.

A fierce hope filled him. Rapidly followed by fear as the van was suddenly rocked by an explosion.

It rose up into the air and crashed back down on its side. He latched desperately onto the railing he was cuffed to, braced himself with hands and feet as it rocked back and forth. As it started to tilt.

Steve had a sinking feeling he was about to get a much closer look at the river, swollen with the recent rainfall, rushing beneath the bridge.

The van tilted a little more, started to slide, and then the Soldier was there, leaping into the van.

No, it wasn't the Soldier. It was _Bucky._ He didn't say a word, just snapped Steve's cuffs as the van slipped all the way over and plummeted towards the water. He pulled Steve against his body, wrapped his arms around him, and braced himself in the corner. "Relax," he said in Steve's ear. "As much as you can." Steve tried, curling himself up as small as he could against Bucky's body.

The van hit hard, Bucky grunted with the impact, but it didn't touch Steve. Bucky didn't let go. Water poured in the open door, the current carrying them away from the bridge, the van slowing as the weight started to drag them down. The water was rising, the van stopped moving, and the water was over Bucky's shoulders, was over Steve's chin. "Deep breath and hang on." Steve obeyed, took a deep breath, and Bucky tugged at him, shoved Steve to hang onto his back, and he was swimming out of the van, letting the current take them.

He broke the surface and they both gasped for breath and he went back under. Steve clung tight as Bucky swam hard, keeping them safe in the rushing river, staying under the surface. Steve pressed his face against Bucky's back and his lungs were burning when Bucky resurfaced. He knew what Bucky was doing. Hiding. Making sure they weren't seen.

What felt like hours later, they reached concrete and slippery rock-covered banks and storm drains, an industrial area with no people in sight. Bucky broke for the side. He pulled Steve out and set him on his feet, then gently pushed the hair out of Steve's eyes. He didn't say anything, just examined him closely, then led the way towards one of the storm drains. Steve followed automatically, then started to lag, eyeing the sloping bank. Bucky wasn't paying attention, was several feet in front of him. Was exhausted in a way Steve had never seen him.

He bolted.

He scrambled up the bank, heard Bucky, who hadn't reacted as fast he normally would, come leaping after him, surefooted on the slippery rocks, but it didn't matter. Steve had stopped, was standing motionless at the top of the bank.  

"Steve."

"I know," he said. " _Damn it!_ "

"Steve?"

"I can't do it." He turned to face Bucky, water pooling at his feet, fighting a sudden surge of anger that wanted to burst out of him. Not at Bucky, _for_ Bucky. He was angry at HYDRA and the whole world that had let this happen to Bucky. "I can't do it. I mean, it doesn't matter, I wouldn't have made it very far. Would I?"

"No."

"No, but I still should have tried. I should have tried to get away. And I can't do it." He started to make his way back down the rocks, not paying attention to where he was putting his feet, he was so focused on Bucky. Inevitably he slipped, would have gone over if Bucky hadn't caught him, set him on his feet. "I can't leave you."

The hand on Steve's elbow tightened. "What?"

"I won't leave you. I mean, I know it wouldn't have worked, but I can't even try." He kept walking, shoes squelching, into the storm drain, Bucky at his side, and dropped to sit on the damp ground.

Bucky sat across from him. "I don't understand."

"I can't leave you in that hellhole alone." He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and put his chin on his wet knees. "It's not going to happen."

"Steve, if you ever get a chance..." He couldn't finish, but Steve understood and he shook his head

"Can I come over there?" When Bucky nodded, he stood up and crossed to sit next to him, leaning into Bucky's side. "I'm going to tell you something. Something important."

Bucky turned to face him.

"I love you." He said it quietly, simply. Apparently, working out _how_ to tell him wasn't that hard after all. And maybe soaking wet and exhausted and hiding in a storm drain after that hell of a mission wasn't the best time, but Bucky needed to know. Steve needed to tell him.

Bucky went still. "I don't..."

"I don't mean I'm in love you with you, like a romance or anything like that," and a tiny voice in the back of his head piped up to warn him that maybe that might be a lie—if not yet, then someday soon—but it was a tiny voice, so he ignored it, "I mean I love you. You're loved." He rested his forehead against Bucky's shoulder. "You should know that someone loves you. And I'm not ever going to leave you, not by choice."

Bucky wasn't talking. Steve wasn't sure he was breathing. "Bucky?" His fingers were flexing, opening and closing, and he was watching them. "Bucky, is that not okay?"

"No, Steve. That's." His indrawn breath was ragged, uneven. "It's okay, but—"

"But?" He touched Bucky's hand.

"But I don't know if I can love you back. I don't know if I know how. I don't know if they left me that."

Steve's heart broke at the same time rage flared; it was a strange, twisting sensation. "Bucky," he said quietly. "You don't have to. That's not what it's about. Look at me?" Bucky did, his eyes uncertain. "It's not a deal. I didn't give it to you to get something back. I didn't tell you so you'd tell me back."

"What if I can't ever?"

"It doesn't matter." Steve paused and shook his head. "No, that's not right. It matters that they might have taken it away from you, but for us, it doesn't matter if you can never feel it. It won't change how I feel. Okay?" Bucky, uncertainty giving way to a soft, hopeful look, nodded and Steve smiled warmly. "Good."

They settled into silence, waiting for nightfall when they could return to HYDRA—Bucky said they'd steal a car once it was dark enough. When Steve started shivering Bucky opened his uniform and lifted his arm so Steve could curl against his side, creating a pocket of heat.

Tucked against Bucky's side, finally warm, Steve closed his eyes and held the secret of Sitwell being alive deep in his heart, fiercely glad at the same time he was deeply worried about what it would mean for Bucky. He hoped SHIELD would burn HYDRA to the ground. He'd just have to somehow keep them from taking Bucky with it.

 

* * *

 

When they finally made it back to the compound, Pierce was waiting. Bucky had been afraid Sitwell's death wasn't going to be enough to make up for the rest of it, the loss of the rest of the team. He reported the entire fight. Black Widow and Hawkeye's—Bucky had recognised them, knew who they were, even if he'd never fought either of them before—involvement had sent Pierce to the edge of cold rage. Only the fact that they'd obviously just arrived, hadn't had time to get any information from Sitwell, had kept him from tipping over.

Bucky was grateful. He was very sure Pierce would have made Steve the target of his anger and used Bucky to do it.

Pierce told him it wasn't over. The plan was still going ahead. Sitwell hadn't been the only HYDRA plant in SHIELD, just the highest ranking. The others were genuinely loyal to HYDRA, not twisted by a spell, but they were lower level, weren't in a position to get the device into place, or _wouldn’t_ be until certain actions were taken, actions that—for once—didn't require assassination.

Until they reached that point, taking out Fury and Hill would be premature, so for the immediate future the Soldier wouldn't be needed. Pierce didn't let him go, though; he kept him there while he seethed. Pierce was not a man who took defeat—even temporary defeat—gracefully. His temper was precisely controlled, each word bitten off cleanly, crisp and even, but he was furious.

When Pierce finally let him leave it was nearly dawn. Steve was in bed, still awake but Bucky could tell he was hanging on through sheer stubbornness. He showered, changed, shut off the lights and crawled into bed next to Steve, the warmth of him waking a sense of peace nothing like the one promised by the Blood.

As always, Steve waited for Bucky, waited to see what he wanted. Bucky lay on his back and realised he wanted something different. "Steve?"

"Yeah, Bucky?

"Would it be okay tonight." He stopped, started again. "Could I hold you?"

Steve didn't answer right away. It was on the tip of Bucky's tongue to take it back when he said, "Of course." He sounded surprised, and his voice was warm when he added, "If you want."

"I'd like to."

Steve rolled onto his side, his back to Bucky, and Bucky, a little hesitantly at first, because it was always Steve who held him, slipped his arm around Steve's waist and pulled him against his body. It was good to have Steve tucked against him. Bucky could curve around him, practically make him disappear, he was so much smaller—not that he was going to say that. If he said that, he had a feeling Steve would never let him do this again. And he wanted to do this again. He wanted Steve curled trustingly in his arms, wanted the feel of Steve relaxing against him, wanted to gather him close, wanted to spread his fingers and feel each delicate rib under his hand. "This is okay?" he asked, chin resting on Steve's hair.

"Better than." It was barely coherent. Steve was almost asleep. Bucky couldn’t help smiling as Steve wrapped a hand around his wrist, mumbled something he couldn't understand, and then he was gone.

With Steve asleep, Bucky let himself take out the memory of this afternoon and look at it. Steve not even trying to run—he hadn't known what to say, hadn't known how to react. Steve had been right, he wouldn't have escaped. Bucky would easily have caught him, would have brought him back; he wouldn't have had a choice. But Steve hadn't run. Hadn't made Bucky chase him and force him back. Steve had chosen to stay. Chosen to stay with him. Chosen to walk back into HYDRA for him.

It shook him to the core. It terrified him. It paled in comparison to what had come next.

Steve loved him. He _loved_ him, even if Bucky could never love him back. Steve wasn't in love with him, not a romance, he'd said. Bucky thought he was relieved about that, because the love part on its own was overwhelming enough—even if some small part of him wondered, wondered what it would be like, wondered if maybe...But no.

It was so much all at once.

He pulled Steve closer, held him a little tighter, and Steve sighed.

Steve had given him so much. He'd given him everything. He'd given him _Bucky._ Bucky wasn't just a word anymore. More and more, Bucky meant something. Bucky was _Steve_. Steve's voice. Steve's laugh. Steve's temper and his stubbornness and now his love. Bucky was Steve's arms around him and his determination and his walking back into HYDRA to keep Bucky safe.

He was Bucky. Maybe he wasn't the Bucky HYDRA had hollowed out and burned away, but that didn't matter. Steve had filled those empty places and helped make him into someone new.

His name was Bucky, and for the first time it was more than just a word.


	11. Chapter 11

Steve was counting the days. Waiting for SHIELD. Hoping like hell the blood pumping out of Sitwell's shoulder hadn't been enough to kill him. Or if it had, that he'd spilled his guts to the redhead before he'd died. Cold, maybe, but he needed them to take HYDRA down.

It was the only way Bucky was ever going to be free.

Whatever was going on, whatever plans HYDRA was working with the loss of Sitwell, they weren't calling on Bucky. He and Steve were keeping a low profile. It meant they mostly stayed in their room.

More and more, it meant they curled up together while Steve told Bucky stories of his life. They had to do something besides stare at the white walls and Bucky was fascinated by even the smallest of things. Given that HYDRA had taken everything physical that marked Steve's past, all he had were his memories. He was happy to share them with Bucky, who didn't even have memories, and it cemented them more strongly in his own mind.

He realised at one point that the tiny voice had been right. They were sitting on the bed—it was the only place besides the single chair at the table, the counter, or the floor to sit. Bucky was stretched out, practically boneless, draped over Steve's lap, his cheek resting on Steve's thigh, nose brushing his hip. His eyes were closed, one arm was loosely draped around Steve's waist, and he was utterly relaxed, completely peaceful. Steve had one hand in his hair, fingers slowly combing through the long strands, the other resting on Bucky's back. Out of nowhere, he was struck with the almost overwhelming urge to lean forward and press a kiss to the top of Bucky's head.

He resisted. But he knew. He knew what it meant. He'd tripped and fallen that little bit further. His hands stilled. Bucky opened his eyes a crack, peering up at him. "Steve?"

"Nothing, Bucky." Steve rubbed his back soothingly. "It's okay."

Bucky waited a beat. Steve smiled at him and he slowly smiled back, his eyes slipping shut again.

He had no intention of saying a damn thing. This wasn't the time or the place and Bucky had been overwhelmed enough by the fact that Steve _loved_ him, without the complication of anything more. If they ever got out, if they ever made it out of here safely and Bucky was free, then maybe. Or maybe not.

If they did make it out of here, if the hopes he'd pinned on SHIELD were realised and they got out, Steve knew he'd never leave Bucky. Knew Bucky would never leave him. Weighed against that, something as small as mentioning he was in love him with didn't seem all that important.

 

* * *

 

"What the hell," the sentry muttered, shading her eyes as she looked up into the sky above HYDRA's compound. There was a vague shimmer in the air, there and gone as she watched.

Her partner yawned and leaned against the stone wall. "What?"

"I thought I saw something."

"Is this like last week when you thought you saw a dragon and it turned out to be a plastic bag?"

"Hey, shut up, Dave. That wasn't my fault."

Dave raised one careful eyebrow. "Then exactly whose fault was it?"

It was a question that would never be answered, because the vague shimmer in the air resolved into four sleek black quinjets. A golden explosion signalled HYDRA's magical protections being smashed into component parts and SHIELD personnel began pouring into the compound from the sky above the courtyard.

The sound of localised explosions from outside the compound indicated all was not well for HYDRA anywhere and the two sentries slammed the alarms into life and bolted for their stations. Dave didn't make it, sprawling lifeless and bloody on the stone floor. His dragon-obsessed partner disappeared into a corridor ahead of gunfire and magic, heading deeper into the compound with the warning that they were under attack.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the attack didn't reach seven levels underground, but the scream of the alarms blared into Bucky and Steve's room and pulled Bucky instantly to his feet. He grabbed his uniform, disappeared into the bathroom, and when he came out, Steve was shoving things into his pockets and pulling on his shoes. There was an expression of wild hope on his face like Bucky had never seen before, a fierce light burning in his eyes.

The intercom sparked to life. It was Pierce. "My office, bring Rogers, fast. We're under attack."

Bucky ran, half-dragging Steve, resisting the urge to pick him up and carry him. What he wanted to do was pick him up and run, as far as he could, away from whatever this was, get him somewhere he'd be safe.

He couldn't.

He had to take him to Pierce.

There were people everywhere, running, heading towards the surface, everyone carrying weapons. Packs of red-eyed clerics, crackling with magic, dripping blood, some Bucky had never seen leave their altars.

He paused outside the door to Pierce's office.

Steve touched his face, a fleeting brush, just the tips of his fingers against his cheek, and Bucky's eyes slipped shut. Just a moment. He could have this moment.

It passed. He opened his eyes. "Be careful," Steve whispered. Bucky pushed the door open.

"Fight them off. Report to Smith. Leave Rogers," Pierce said as soon as he saw Bucky. "Now. Go."

Bucky had to turn and leave. He had no choice. He had to leave Steve behind. He knew why Pierce wanted him. If they came out the other side of this, if Bucky survived, he couldn't hurt Pierce but Pierce could never bring him back from the Blood. Steve, he'd never hurt Steve, and Steve could bring him back.

This was Pierce planning to start all over again.

Bucky shuddered.

He ran up through the floors, skidded through pockets of fighting, bringing an end to them and gathering up HYDRA's people, redirecting them while he kept moving.

After what felt like hours he hit the edge of the courtyard.

Smith was there, behind an impromptu barricade. He grinned when he saw Bucky, all teeth. "Good. I need you to take out their sniper. He's up in the north block."

Bucky followed his finger. Saw a familiar man, a familiar bow, familiar arrows taking out HYDRA operatives. Hawkeye.

" _Now._ We haven't got all fucking day."

Bucky went, skirting back around the inside of the compound, past more pockets of fighting. He had a specific mission, so he ignored them, ignored the SHIELD agents fighting HYDRA. The mission took priority and there was nothing in him that wanted to help HYDRA or hurt SHIELD.

He went up the outside of the building, down an unused corridor, through a window, up a rusty staircase, across the roof, and dropped down behind Hawkeye.

Who'd heard him coming. He spun, nearly took his eye out with an arrow. Hawkeye was _fast_ and had no problems with fighting dirty, but Bucky was faster, stronger, had a metal arm and the Blood. Even with the best will in the world a normal person, no matter how well trained, couldn't stand against him.

Bucky backed him up against the edge, a straight drop three stories down onto cement, locked his metal hand around his throat, and squeezed. Hawkeye was still fighting, but he was getting slower, weaker. Bucky was fighting the Blood, the Soldier was rising, as he met Hawkeye's gaze and saw the knowledge of his own death written there.

Sudden pain knifed through his gut and his fingers spasmed. Hawkeye sucked in a breath, gasping, in the brief seconds Bucky's grip was loose.

Bucky didn't notice.

He would have fallen if he hadn't been holding Hawkeye. He stumbled back two steps, dragging Hawkeye with him.

The world went white.

The Bond was broken.

The soul-chain Binding him to Pierce had snapped, setting him free.

Colour bled back into the world, resolved into Hawkeye's red face, his staring eyes. He was going to die. Bucky opened his hand and let him go. Hawkeye stumbled backwards, almost fell off the ledge. Bucky grabbed the front of his uniform, ignoring his weak attempt to dodge, and pulled him back. Hawkeye hit his knees, gasping for breath, hands clutching his throat as Bucky turned and threw himself off. He landed lightly, feet dancing to absorb the force, and bolted, dodging through the fighters, shoving, throwing people out of his way.

Only one thing could have broken the Bond. Only one thing could have set him free.

He ran faster. HYDRA's people saw him and got out of his way. SHIELD agents who tried to stop him he hurled as far away as he could.

He hit the door of Pierce's office and smashed it open.

Froze.

Steve was standing, a knife in his hands. Bucky's knife. He must have dug in with all his strength to make it work. Arterial spray had painted the skin of his hands in rough red strokes. Pierce was lying at his feet, throat a ripped, bloody mess.

He was very dead.

Steve was pale, eyes wide.

He looked up at Bucky. "He didn't see it coming. He was talking to someone on the phone, saying they'd have to take over now. He didn't see it coming."

Bucky crossed the room in two strides, plucked the knife from his hands, tossed it away and hauled Steve close, wrapped his arms around him. Steve pushed into him, buried his face in Bucky's chest, the leather creaking under the force.

"I had to do it. I knew it was your only chance to be free of him."

"Steve." Bucky pressed his face into Steve's hair, closed his eyes.

"Did it work? Tell me it worked."

"It worked."

Steve's arms clutched him convulsively. "You're free?" That was more complicated. Bucky didn't answer, his eyes on Pierce's corpse. He gently freed himself from Steve's grip, walked over, pulled out a knife, cut a piece off Pierce's shirt and saw the glint of a chain around what was left of his neck. He knew what it was. He knew what it meant. He knew what he had to do. "Bucky?"

He gently cleaned the blood off Steve's hands then tossed the bloody cloth on the ground and closed his hands around Steve's. "Only as long as no one takes the other end." He squeezed Steve's hands. "Steve."

"I'm not going to like this am I?" His eyes were wary, worried.

"No. I need you to do something for me." Steve waited. "I need you to Bind me."

Steve recoiled so sharply he almost went over backwards, would have, but for Bucky's hold on his hands. "No, Bucky no. What? No!"

"Steve, listen to me. I'm a weapon. I'm a weapon with no safety. SHIELD's going to be here soon. They'll take one look at me and see the other end of the soul-chain waving around. And they're going to grab it, they're going to Bind me. Maybe not right away, but eventually they're going to think I'm too dangerous to be left uncontrolled. Then maybe they start using me, just like HYDRA. Maybe they start sending me out to kill. I'm too good for them not to want to use me." Bucky stepped closer, wrapped his hands around Steve's shoulders. "I'm anyone's, anyone who wants to grab the other end of the chain. Unless I'm already Bound. You're the only one I trust. You're the only one who can keep me safe. Please, Steve."

"You don't know what you're asking." Steve's voice cracked, and he curled his hands in the front of Bucky's uniform.

"I know, Steve. I know. I know exactly what I'm asking you. I know how you feel, but there's no one else I can trust. All you've ever wanted to do is protect me. All you've ever wanted to do is keep me safe. You love me and I know you'll never hurt me. Please. Please do it."

Steve was shaking his head, knuckles white around the straps of Bucky's uniform.

Bucky touched his cheek. "We're running out of time. Please." 

He could see the pain in Steve's eyes, the horror, at the thought, but he said, voice hoarse, "All right. All right, if you need me to. For you, I'll do it." Bucky knew what he was doing to Steve, and he was sorry, but there was no choice. It was the only way he'd be safe. "What do I have to do?"

"He's got an amulet around his neck. Grab it, smear it with your blood, touch me and will it. That's it. It's that simple."

Steve pulled Pierce's bloody shirt back, pulled the amulet loose. It was ugly, carved with a subtle tentacle pattern that seemed to warp as he watched. He held it up by the chain. "Bucky, why don't I just break it? If I break it, _no one_ can Bind you."

"Steve, you can't. It's protected. Even if you could, the backlash would kill you. It would probably kill me. It might blow up the building." Bucky shook his head. "Binding me's the only way."

Steve clenched his fingers around it and bowed his head. "All right." Bucky pulled out a knife and offered it to him, brushing his fingers over Steve's as he took it. He sank to his knees in front of Steve as Steve put the amulet around his neck and, hands shaking, carefully sliced his palm. Fingers curled, blood slowly pooling, he pressed the back of his other hand, fingers still clenched around the knife, to Bucky's cheek. "Are you sure? Are you really sure? This is, Bucky, what I'm about to do, this is the worst thing—"

"No, it's the best thing. Steve, this is the only thing. I'm sure. I need you to do this. I trust you to do this. It's the only way I'll be safe. The only way I'm going to stay free." Steve shivered, tremors travelling through his body, then he nodded. Wrapping his arm around Bucky's neck, he pressed his bleeding palm against the amulet.

For one brief second, Bucky thought it wasn't going to work, thought Steve wouldn't be able to muster the willpower to make it work when he didn't want to do it.

He should have known better. This was Steve. Stubborn, determined Steve, who'd do anything for him.

He felt the bond slam through him, the dangling end of the chain snap tight in his soul as it recognised Steve as its new holder. It tore through him, irresistible, implacable, impossible to fight, but it was like water, washing away everything that had come before. He could feel Steve inside his soul, where he'd only ever felt HYDRA. He didn't feel helpless: he felt strong, he felt clean, he felt _loved_.

Steve's bleeding hand slid into his hair. Bucky buried his face in Steve's stomach, wrapped his arms around his hips. It was settling over him, settling into him. He was once more Bound, his soul once more chained to someone else's will, but he still felt free.

His eyes had closed but he pried them open as Steve murmured his name, tilted his head back so he could see Steve, Steve who was looking down at him. Light was pouring out of the amulet, greasy and pale, _wrong_ , but it didn't matter, it couldn't taint what he was feeling. He smiled and Steve held him tighter, like he could protect him from the world, and Bucky would _swear_ he felt it echo through the Bond. All he wanted to do was pull Steve down and curl around him, maybe stay that way for a year or two.

Which made it a real shame when a voice shouted, "Drop the knife!"

Bucky surged to his feet, whirling to plant himself between the SHIELD agents and Steve, reaching automatically for weapons, but Steve's hand on his arm stopped him. The knife hit the floor.

He knew the woman standing in the hallway. Deputy-Director Maria Hill. Second on the kill list after Director Fury. Dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. He backed up, to push Steve farther away from her, but Steve stepped to the side. There were at least three magic users with her, the only agents not pointing guns at them; instead, their hands were held in front of them, fingers twisted in complicated configurations. Their faces were filled with contempt, horror, nausea on one—she looked like she might actually throw up.

They weren't looking at Bucky. They were looking at Steve. They knew what Steve had done.

His fingers flexed, itching for his weapons, the need driving higher as Steve stepped in front of him.  "Whatever you think he's done, it wasn't him. He had no choice. He's not dangerous." A look of faint disbelief passed over Hill's otherwise expressionless face. "Not to you. None of it was him, none of it was his choice. He's a good man and he's not responsible for any of it. That," he pointed his finger at Pierce's corpse, "is the man responsible. Pierce forced him, he was the one who gave the orders, he's the one who Bound him with a soul-chain."

"Who killed Secretary Pierce?" Hill's voice was perfectly neutral.

Steve didn't falter as he said, "Me."

"And who are you?" Hill asked Steve.

"Steve Rogers. I'm a prisoner. They kidnapped me to keep him," he touched Bucky's arm, "under control." Bucky shifted, the old guilt driving through him like a red hot spike. Steve must have sensed it because he turned to face him. "You are not them. You are the one thing I don't regret. You are worth the whole damn thing." Bucky searched his face, then nodded slightly. Satisfied, Steve turned back. "Who are you?"

"Deputy-Director Hill, SHIELD." Hill had watched their exchange impassively. "Why did you kill him?"

"It was the only way to set him," he touched Bucky's arm again, "free."

One of the magic users whispered something in Hill's ear. Her face darkened. "Free. You had a knife at his throat and I'm informed he's now under your control, courtesy of a soul-chaining spell. Likely the same spell you say Pierce was using. That sounds more like you killed Pierce because you wanted him for yourself."

Steve's shoulders stiffened. Bucky shifted forward, until he was pressed against the line of Steve's back, and wrapped his hands around Steve's shoulders. "He did it because I asked him to."

Hill's eyebrow went up, eloquent in its disbelief. "I'm sure it seems like that now," one of the magic users, the one who'd looked nauseous, said carefully. "But—"

Bucky angrily interrupted her. "No, it seems like that because it is like that."

"Easy," Steve murmured, gently touching Bucky's hand.

He could feel his temper rising, but it wasn't cold, it wasn't the Blood. He could hear the Blood, he could feel it pulling at him, but it was distant, not urgent. He could feel Steve inside him, but it was good, like the warm spot under his heart magnified a thousand times, and it was standing between him and the Blood. He turned back to Hill, who was studying them.

She asked Bucky, "If you were free, why would you want to be Bound again? Why would you ask him to Bind you?"

"Because if he did, SHIELD couldn't."

"SHIELD would never—"

"SHIELD would never? Would never grab the other end of my leash when it was waving around, waiting to be picked up?" A bitter, angry smile pulled at the corners of Bucky's mouth. "When it was attached to someone as dangerous as me?" He looked down at Steve. "I made sure I was in someone else's hands before that could happen. Even if he didn't want to do it," he finished softly.

From the look on Hill's face she wanted to argue the point. She didn't. "I've got a problem. Actually, I have several problems, but the two most pressing are Pierce and you two. I know about you," she said to Bucky, "I know all about you. You're the Soldier—"

"No." It slipped out before Bucky knew he was going to speak.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't call me that."

There was a long moment of weighted silence, as if this encounter had gone off script and Hill didn't quite know where it was heading now. "What should I call you?

He lifted his chin, not realising he'd stolen the gesture from Steve. "My name is Bucky." It wasn't just a word. It was his name. It was who he was.

"We weren't told you had a name."

"I didn't used to." This silence was awkward, at least on Hill's part. For Bucky, it was warm; Steve pushed back into him, flashed him a proud look over his shoulder and his eyes were bright.

"Right. Bucky, as I was saying, I have it on good authority, both magical and mundane, that you were not responsible for the things you're reported to have done, that you were controlled. Provisionally, SHIELD is prepared to proceed on that basis. This was partly a rescue and recovery mission. We thought we'd be rescuing you from Pierce. We didn't expect him to be dead and be rescuing you from someone claiming to be HYDRA's prisoner."

"Steve's _not_ part of HYDRA and I don't need rescuing from him," Bucky ground out. "He's the only person who ever tried to help me, and I'm the reason he ended up here in the first place." Steve's fingers closed over his right hand, squeezing gently, and he took a deep breath. "He's not _claiming_ to be a prisoner, he was. They stole him, stole his life."

"All right," she replied neutrally. "But that doesn't solve my problem. Because all I've heard is _cut off one head and two will grow in its place_ , over and over again, to the point I'm not sure these people know how to say anything else. For all I know, you two could be the heads intended to grow in place of the ones we've just cut off, and once we've got you inside SHIELD some master plan will be put in motion." She raised her hand, and continued before either Steve or Bucky could protest. "I'm not saying it's likely. I'm saying I'm not taking either of you into SHIELD until I know you don't represent an unreasonable risk."

"And our word's not good enough," Steve said.

"Would it be good enough for you?"

"No," Steve admitted, then squared his shoulders and stared her down. "Not that I'm not damn glad to see you, though I'd like to know what the hell took you so long, but why would SHIELD be on a rescue and recovery mission for Bucky? You know what HYDRA made him do, so why would you be so eager to help him?" 

There was a long silence, filled with the sense that Hill was carefully weighing up what to tell them. "Because we need him," she finally said. "If he could be kept stable, if he didn't go out of control after we got him out—and frankly, no one was expecting him to be this coherent." Steve glared at her, which she ignored. "We were going to try and bring him into SHIELD."

Tension shot down Bucky's spine, chased by fear, followed by the explosion of relief that Steve had Bound him. "I won't kill for you." They couldn't make him, thanks to Steve. "I won't kill for anyone. Not anymore. Not ever again." Steve covered Bucky's metal hand with his own and Bucky threaded his fingers through Steve's. Steve, who'd kept him safe.

"Much as we could use your skills, that's not why we wanted you, why we want you. We didn't know HYDRA existed until we found out we were a couple of months out from maybe losing SHIELD. No one knows anything about HYDRA, not really. We've got an Agent who was brainwashed. Mr Rogers, I suspect you might know a few things if you've been a prisoner here—"

Steve interrupted her. "Pierce was on the phone with someone when I...killed him. He was telling whoever it was that they'd have to take over now."

Hill's eyebrows rose slightly. "Thank you. But you," she said to Bucky, "know more than anyone. You might be the difference between us taking them down completely and losing because we didn't see them coming."

She was probably right. He probably was the only one who could give them the information they'd need. But..."I can't give you an answer." Steve squeezed his hand.

"I haven't made you an offer yet. I still don't know if you're a threat."

"So this is a stalemate," Steve said.

"I have a solution, but I also have a feeling neither of you are going to like it. Advantage is, if she clears you, we take you to HQ and you get to be guests of SHIELD, under our protection, while we debrief you and figure out what to do about all of this. If you don't agree or she doesn't clear you we have to consider other options." She paused. "You'll like those even less."

 

*      *      *

 

They agreed to consider her solution, but they had to wait for it to arrive. While they waited, Hill sent a team in to retrieve Pierce's body.  Bucky and Steve moved to the far side of the office, to give them space and prevent anyone from getting too close.

Hill's solution turned out to be another SHIELD agent. Or maybe not an agent, because when she arrived, she was dressed in leather—a long red jacket and black pants—with not a SHIELD insignia in sight. Hawkeye arrived with her, bristling protectively, his throat a mass of bruises. Bucky was relieved to see him walking around, relieved to know he was okay. His bow was slung over one shoulder, next-to-useless in the close confines of the office, but he had a gun in his hand, casually pointed at the floor. Bucky was sure any move towards the new arrival and it would immediately be put to use.

"My solution," Hill said. "Is Miss Maximoff. She's going to look into your minds and tell me exactly what's going on in there. You can lie to me, but you can't lie to her." The new arrival smiled faintly. "All she has to do is touch you."

*      *      *

 

Steve had been waiting for SHIELD. He'd been waiting for them to come and take HYDRA down. Whatever happened, they'd done that. Whatever happened, Bucky was free of HYDRA. He was free of Pierce.

Steve had never thought of himself as someone who could kill. He'd never thought he'd have it in him to deliberately kill another human being. But when Pierce had turned his back on Steve, dismissed him like he wasn't even there while he spoke on the phone, and he'd had Bucky's knife in his pocket, had the memory of watching the Soldier tear through throats, had known Bucky was out there, fighting SHIELD, maybe going to get killed... Everything had become very clear. Very calm. It had been hard, but he'd done it.

He couldn't find it in him to regret it.

He wasn't sure Pierce even counted as a human being.

It didn't make him feel like a monster. Binding Bucky, chaining his soul, he thought that might make him a monster. But he'd _killed_ to set Bucky free. He couldn't say no to anything Bucky needed to feel safe, no matter what it cost.

Hill sounded like she wanted Bucky's cooperation, it sounded like maybe there could be something _good_ for Bucky, like maybe there was a chance for Bucky to have a future, but he wasn't going to let them do this. He bristled like an attack dog. "No. No one's rummaging around in Bucky's head. He's been through enough."

"But I can rummage around in your head?" Miss Maximoff asked.

"I don't care," Steve snapped. It wasn't entirely true, but better his head than Bucky's. "Just stay the hell out of his."

"Steve," Bucky murmured. "It's okay. If that's what they need to do."

Steve turned to study him. "Are you sure?"

"Can't say I'm looking forward to it, but if that's what they have to do for us to get out of here, then I'll manage."

"Fine," he said, turning back. "But you take most of what you need from me."

She considered it, then nodded. "I need you to separate."

Reluctantly, Steve took two steps away from Bucky. Letting him go was incredibly hard.

"Hold out your hand." When Steve obeyed she took his hand and red light flared, blinding him, dragging him under, and the entire world bled crimson as she stepped into his mind.

Steve instinctively tried to fight, but she was ruthless power, stripping him bare, flipping through his memories like the pages of a book. When she got close to something that belonged to Bucky, he flung _his_ memories at her. Firsts of everything, embarrassing memories, sensitive memories, memories of grief and pain, memories he'd have taken to the grave before he'd have shared them with another person, even Bucky: he threw them in her path like caltrops, trying to protect Bucky. Trying to protect secrets that weren't his to give.

He could feel her confusion at his tactics. It wasn't fighting the way anyone else would understand it; they weren't the actions of someone with something to hide, because he was hiding nothing. He was baring his soul, his throat, his belly, all to protect Bucky. Finally, she stopped. He had a sense of her hovering, wreathed in red.

There was a flash and they were sitting in a meadow, one he recognised from his childhood. When he was young, before his mother got sick, when she'd been well enough for them to take the train far out of the city, this was where they'd come. The only difference was this blue sky, these puffy white clouds, were tinged with red. _"Tell me. Tell me what happened."_

_"I won't give you Bucky's secrets. I know I can't stop you from taking them, but I won't give them to you."_

_"I understand. I'll know if you lie. If you lie, I'll take what I need."_

_"I understand."_ It wasn't talking. Steve didn't speak, it didn't take words, but he gave her everything from the moment he'd turned and seen the Soldier standing behind him in the park, the night HYDRA had given him his _choice_. Everything but the moments which belonged to Bucky.

It was like watching a movie of his time with HYDRA, the images flipping past—pausing as she examined something, an event, a person, the painful moment of helplessness when Pierce had used Bucky to snap his finger, one of Bucky's missions—moving faster and faster as they rocketed towards the end, freezing at Bucky on his knees, face pressed into Steve's stomach, Steve's bleeding hand tangled in his hair, Steve's other arm wrapped around his shoulders, the knife in his hand worryingly close to Bucky's throat.

He suddenly understood why they didn't believe he'd been trying to help Bucky.

_"You love him."_

_"Yes."_

_"You didn't want to do it."_

_"No._ " All his reluctance, his horror at having Bound Bucky, flooded him. " _But it was what he needed to feel safe."_

The world dissolved around him, fracturing into red. _"Steve."_ They were still in his mind, but it had gone formless. He couldn't see her. _"You used the amulet, you chained his soul, but you did so entirely out of love. His soul could not be in safer hands."_

He came back to himself with an explosive gasp, clinging to her hand. Her eyes were soft, her expression gentle, and he looked away. She squeezed once and let go, then turned towards Bucky. "Wait," he gasped out, still shaken, the world still brushed with red. "Be careful with him."

She inclined her head and slowly walked towards Bucky.

 

*      *      *

 

The woman was inside Steve's mind for a long time, long enough for Bucky to consider walking over and pulling them apart. When she finally let him go, when Steve came out of it with a gasp, it reminded Bucky so much of coming back from under the Blood his hands curled into fists and he had to look away. He heard Steve tell her to be careful with him and when he looked back, she was approaching him slowly.

Bucky found himself saying, "I won't hurt you," because no matter how much he didn't like the idea of this, he discovered he hated the idea of her being afraid of him even more.

She smiled, amusement Bucky didn't understand painted across her face. "Thank you for that, but it's not necessary. Hold out your hand. Your right one."

Bucky did, reluctantly, and she pressed her fingers lightly against his knuckles, red light flaring to life at the contact. He could feel her in his mind, like her fingers were dragging against the inside of his skull, and he shook his head, the metal plates of his arm realigning in reaction. He felt the Blood rise, territorial and angry at the invasion. He fought it back, pulled on the feel of Steve under his heart, in his soul, not knowing what the Blood might do to her. It was easier than it had ever been, felt like Steve was in there, helping him fight.

He felt her touch the Blood, felt her recoil, tried to shove himself between her and the Blood, because _no one_ should have to feel it. She let him; he knew she was _allowing_ him to shoulder her aside as she delicately sorted through his memories. He felt controlled power under the subtle touch, power that could have torn his mind to pieces.

She let him go, the red light fading as she lifted her hand from his. Their eyes met, his wide, hers shocked. "What was that?"

"It's how they made me into this." Steve took two quick steps to Bucky's side and leaned into him; Bucky curved his arm around his shoulders.

"You tried to keep me from it."

"You shouldn't have to touch it."

Understanding filled her face. "You were trying to protect me."

Bucky didn't reply and she cocked her head, gaze sweeping over the two of them before she turned away, walking to stand in front of Hill.

"Verdict?" Hill asked.

"They don't represent a danger to SHIELD. He asked Steve to bind him. Steve did so out of a desire to protect. Together they're potentially very dangerous, but they mean no harm to SHIELD. Steve was taken prisoner for the purpose of keeping him," she nodded at Bucky, "calm, keeping him under control. Steve's been waiting for us. He knew Agent Sitwell wasn't dead and he said nothing to HYDRA. He wanted us to come, wanted us to _burn HYDRA to the ground_ , is the exact phrase in his mind. You killed Pierce because you thought it was the only way to save him," she said, turning to look directly at Steve. "The only way he'd ever be free."

"Yes."

She nodded, turning back to Hill. "They're as safe as anyone with his skills, with what HYDRA did to him," again, she nodded at Bucky, "can ever be, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone. He never did. He has it under control. You can bring them safely into SHIELD."

"Can you break the soul-chain?"

"No. It's not in his mind. I can't reach his soul."

Hill nodded once, sharply. "Thank you. You can go."

With one long, searching look at Bucky, and another long look at Steve, she left, Hawkeye falling in behind her.

Things moved fast after that. They were loaded into a quinjet, not quite under guard, but they were surrounded by very capable looking SHIELD agents. As the HYDRA compound disappeared into the distance, Bucky shivered. Steve pressed closer to him. "Bucky?" he murmured.

"It's a lot." He shook his head and Steve slipped one hand up to curl his fingers around the back of his neck.

"You're out, Bucky. You're free."

Bucky closed his eyes and smiled faintly. He was free.


	12. Chapter 12

It was a plain room. It wasn't a cell. The bed had a comfortable mattress, and plenty of blankets and pillows. The walls were a pleasant, pale cream. There was a selection of books. There was a toilet and a shower behind a door he could close, so it wasn't a cell.

It felt like one.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his feet. He was alone. He missed Bucky like someone had dug out a piece of his soul. Which was ridiculous; they'd only been apart for about five hours, but there it was.

SHIELD had insisted on splitting them up.

When they'd arrived, Hill had peeled off to start dealing with the Pierce problem, to figure out where he was going to die. A car crash, apparently, given the mess Steve had made of his throat. She'd left them in the charge of her next most senior agent, an Adept, one of the magic users who'd arrived at the tail end of Steve's Binding of Bucky.

The Adept didn't like Steve. As had been made perfectly clear when he'd refused to let him stay with Bucky. When he'd said he wouldn’t leave a man who'd Bound another person with a soul-chain alone with the person he'd Bound. When he'd said, "Whatever your reasons, Mr Rogers, the fact remains that you took a man who, based on the information available to us, had been enslaved for decades and did exactly the same thing to him."

Bucky had leapt in, once again saying that he'd _asked_ Steve to do it. The Adept had fixed Steve with a gimlet stare, never once looking at Bucky. "I accept that. However, given his past, I do _not_ accept that he could have made an informed decision, if consent is even possible for something so heinous. So no, I will not be leaving you alone together." One of his fellow magic users had fetched a shielded box, into which he'd had Steve deposit the amulet, then escorted Bucky away.

It had shaken Steve. He didn't agree with him, didn't believe for one second that Bucky hadn't known _exactly_ what he was asking when he'd wanted Steve to Bind him. It was the enormity, the horror, of the thing itself Steve had objected to, but if it was what Bucky needed to feel safe, then Steve would do it again a million times over. No, what shook Steve about the Adept's little tirade was what it said about how they were viewing Bucky.

Bucky was a victim, he was a victim of everything HYDRA had done to him, but it didn't mean he was helpless, didn't mean he didn't know his own mind. He was brave and strong and resilient, had survived things no one here could even imagine, and here was SHIELD doubting he'd made his own decision about what he needed.

It worried him.

Steve supposed he should try and rest. He'd committed one of the worst magical sins you could commit against another human being. Right after he'd murdered someone. It had been a big day.

SHIELD didn't actually seem to care that much about the murder. Everything he'd seen so far, they seemed to regard it as an inconvenience, but when the Secretary of the World Security Council—and Steve _knew_ Pierce had seemed familiar that first day, but he thought he could be forgiven for not figuring it out—turned out to be the head of a terrorist organisation planning to infiltrate you, Steve supposed it wasn't that surprising. Steve had probably done them a favour.

But both had been done for Bucky and now Bucky wasn't here. Wasn't with him. He'd gone with the Adept when he'd insisted on splitting them up, hadn't made a fuss beyond that initial protest.

He just hoped Bucky wasn't regretting what he'd asked Steve to do. Steve owned Bucky's soul. He could control him. He'd never use it, but it made him desperately uneasy to think of having that power over Bucky, even if Miss Maximoff had looked inside his mind and said Bucky's soul couldn't be in safer hands. That was terrifying, that she'd trust him with Bucky's soul.

God.

He sat like that until the lights dimmed, then he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He didn't sleep. He didn't think he could sleep without Bucky. He wondered if Bucky was okay.

A faint noise from the ceiling caught his attention and he cocked his head. There was a squeak, a soft brushing noise, then the vent popped off and Bucky dropped into the room. Steve was off the bed and barrelling into him before the vent stopped rocking. Bucky gathered him up and held him tight. "How?" he muttered, voice muffled since his face was pressed into Bucky's chest. Like Steve, he was dressed in SHIELD issue sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Someone uses the vents to get around. I took advantage." He smoothed his hand over Steve's hair and they both breathed more easily. "Guess they forgot who they're dealing with."

"Guess they did," Steve said, leaning back to smile up at him. Even in the dim light he could just make out Bucky's features. He looked tired. "Were they treating you okay?"

"I guess." He shook his head. "They just wouldn't listen. That agent who wouldn't let us stay together kept going on about how they needed to keep me away from you, how I might think you had my best interests at heart but the soul-chain was influencing me. I needed to try and set those feelings aside and think rationally." Bucky's arms tightened around Steve as he pulled him closer. "There's nothing rational about any of this, and I'm not talking about the Bond."

"They're treating you like a victim, like you don't know your own mind."

"Yeah, that's exactly right."

"Suddenly, I feel a little bit better about the Bond."

"Steve?"

"If they're not listening to you about this, if they think you don't know your own mind about this." He shook his head. "You're right, Bucky," he said softly, "in the wrong hands, you're a weapon. If they think you need to be controlled...I don't know if they'd have used the soul-chain to do it, but I'm not so sure, if we know they're not listening to you about this, that they _wouldn’t_." He leaned back. "It makes me kind of sick to know I could control you if I wanted to, but at least I know I don't want to."

Bucky sagged against him, his weight suddenly bearing down on Steve before he caught himself. "I'm sorry I made you do it, but I'm glad you understand."

"You didn't make me do it. I chose to do it."

"Would you really have said no? To something I needed to feel safe?"

"No." He smiled. "But that's still a choice. It just means I'll always choose you."

Bucky slowly smiled back. "I can feel you in here, you know, like I've got you with me all the time. Like you're helping me stand against the Blood. It feels good."

"I wouldn't say it feels _good_ from my end," Steve said on a huff of laughter. "But I'm starting to feel better about it."

"Good." Bucky rested his chin on Steve's hair. "Let's go to bed." 

They got settled, the bed narrower than what they were used to, but they curled together, Steve tucked in the curve of Bucky's body. It took them some time to fall asleep, but they got there eventually.

They woke in the morning to alarms ringing and the sounds of panic and booted feet running in the halls. Bucky yawned and pulled Steve closer, snuggling him. "If they didn't want an incident they shouldn't have taken you away," he said, sounding completely unconcerned.

Steve agreed completely and laughed quietly, closing his eyes. He doubted he'd go back to sleep, but this was the first morning they'd ever been _together_ and _safe._ They were free of HYDRA. Maybe it wasn't ideal, but SHIELD was not HYDRA and Bucky was _safe. He was safe._ Steve was going to put all of the worrying things out of his mind, focus on the fact that Bucky was cuddling him like he was some kind of teddy bear, and enjoy it.

Finally, hours later, someone thought to look in Steve's room. Two agents barged in, brusque and armed, and stopped dead. They were sitting on the bed, Bucky leaning against the wall, Steve sitting in the circle of his arms. Bucky was looking every inch the Soldier—at least to someone who knew neither of them—metal arm gleaming and folded across Steve's chest. Steve was completely unconcerned, face impassive. Both looked up as two agents came through the door. "Yes?" Steve asked, as if the new arrivals were the most inconsiderate people in the world.

They were entirely taken aback, lowering their guns. "Uh, I found him," one said into his communicator. "He's with Rogers. No, neither appear to present any danger. Uh," his eyes travelled over both of them, "well," his voice dropped, took on overtones of embarrassment, "cuddling, ma'am." He winced. "Cuddling, yes. Yes, ma'am." He looked at Steve. "Deputy-Director Hill is coming to speak to you."

"Hopefully she'll knock," Steve said and Bucky hid a smile in his shoulder. 

 

* * *

 

Deputy-Director Hill did not knock. She walked into the room and she brought a chair. She didn't bring anyone else. She set the chair down and sat on it like she was tired. "I spent most of last night reading about the history of soul-chaining. A nightmare I could have done without, so thanks for that."

Bucky still had Steve sitting in the circle of his arms, because he liked the impression it gave, and he liked the feel of him there, and Steve had made no attempt to move. "You're welcome," Steve said, dryly sarcastic, and Bucky recognised this Steve. This was the Steve from his first days in HYDRA, the Steve he'd barely seen since the day Pierce had made him break his finger and he'd agreed to follow Pierce's rules—for Bucky.

Bucky was so happy to see him, he couldn't resist sliding his arms around him a little tighter. The tiny smile Steve flashed over his shoulder told him Steve knew exactly what it was for.

Hill didn't react to the tone, just stretched her legs out in front of her. "The magic's been lost for a couple of hundred years. Deliberately lost. But we thought the same thing about HYDRA, so not surprising the two would resurface at the same time. The primary reason people were Bound with soul-chains, according to the history books, was sexual slavery." She waved a hand at them. "It doesn't make this look great."

Steve tensed but Bucky started to laugh, because it was so ridiculous, and he felt Steve relax against him. "How did I manage it?" Steve asked, eyebrows raised. "How did I lure him out of wherever you had him stashed and summon him here to, what, have my wicked way with him? Does the Bond grant telepathy or did I just yell really loudly and no one noticed?" His sarcasm could have stripped paint off the walls. "Is that really what you think?"

"No," she admitted, and the corner of her mouth quirked up. "But I'm not most people." She leaned forward in her chair. "What you did, Mr Rogers, is universally considered to be immoral. The only reason it wasn't illegal is because no one believed the magic still existed. No one passes laws for things that don't exist. But you enslaved another human being. Regardless of your reasons, those are the facts."

"Those aren't the only facts. I did what Bucky needed me to do to keep him safe. I'd do it again."

"I believe you. On both counts. But it does leave me with a problem. I've had our best people examining the amulet you used. In the early hours of this morning, one of them suggested smashing it to pieces."

Bucky and Steve stared at her in horror. "Don't do that," Bucky said sharply.

"Was it the genius who decided Bucky and I needed to be separated?" Steve asked.

"Possibly."

Steve snorted.

"That sums up the general reaction. There were also words tossed around like _level the building_ , so no, they _won't_ be doing that. The suggester's been put on administrative leave, if that makes you feel any better. As far as we know it's the only repository of soul-chaining magic in the world. We'll be locking it away." Bucky wondered if they'd actually lock it away or if they were going to keep studying it. "They inform me once the Bond's established the only thing that will break it is death. It's consistent with everything we know about the history of soul-chaining. It can't be broken."

Steve slumped a little in Bucky's arms but Bucky felt a spark of satisfaction settle in his gut. They couldn't take this away from him. It was his. Steve was his.

"Which leaves me with a problem," Hill said to Steve. "Because the obvious solution is to keep you away from him, so you can't abuse your power."

"If you try and separate us, you aren't going to like what happens," Bucky said calmly. 

"I'm starting to understand that, though I'd prefer if you'd avoid threats," Hill said, sounding unconcerned. "And you won't hurt him," she told Steve. "Miss Maximoff was very clear on that point."

Steve raised questioning eyebrows at her.

"She gave me a full briefing."

"Are you going somewhere with this?" Steve asked.

"Yes." Hill sighed and deliberately let herself ease into a more relaxed posture. She opened her hands. "I'm sorry you were separated. It won't happen again. We've retrieved your belongings from the HYDRA base, at least I assume they're yours. There was a sketch book full of pictures of Bucky." Steve lifted his chin and Bucky could see the back of his neck was pink. "It's in your new quarters along with everything else. Married quarters, so they're bigger. I didn't think either of you would mind."

Neither of them reacted right away, both surprised at being given so much without having to fight for it. "No," Bucky finally said. "We don't mind."

"Why would you give us that, without us having to ask?" Steve asked, the barest hint of suspicion in his voice.

"I wish I could say it was entirely out of the goodness of our hearts. But," she met Bucky's eyes, "we want your help, we need it, and I'm starting to figure out we don't get one of you without the other. We need you. You don't have to join SHIELD. We're always hiring consultants. You could start a new life together under SHIELD's protection."

"I can't give you an answer. I need to think about it, we need to talk about it," Bucky said.

"That's fine." She started to stand. "Let me know if you have any questions."

"Wait," Steve said. She stopped. "Any chance I could talk to one of those people who's been studying the amulet? Who knows about soul-chains?"

"What are you looking for?"

"How the Bond works. How the," he grimaced, "how the control works."

After a searching look, she nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Hill was almost out the door when Bucky spoke, voice low. "Deputy-Director?" She turned, let the door fall shut. Waited for him to continue. "Why don't you care?" She cocked her head. "Why don't you care about the things I've done?"

She stood silently for a long moment. "Are you sure you want to go there?"

He took a deep breath and nodded. He needed to know. He needed to understand. "Yes."

"I care," she said. "I care a hell of a lot. Good people went down under your guns. We're still figuring out how many of SHIELD's people, how many people SHIELD was responsible for, died at your hands." Steve bristled, Bucky could feel him wanting to leap to his defence, and he settled one hand over Steve's, felt him subside. "But I keep reminding myself it wasn't you. You didn't choose it. You didn't have a choice. HYDRA made you into a weapon. Pierce picked you up and turned you against us. It's not always going to be easy to remember that, and some people aren't ever going to manage it, but the good ones are going to try. If you help us, if you help us take down HYDRA, I will do my damndest to make sure you only ever work with the good ones." She held his gaze then nodded once. "Like I said, think about it. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do." She left, closing the door behind her.

Bucky let his head fall forward to rest against Steve's.

Steve squeezed his hand. "Is that what you needed to know?"

He nodded.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded again.

"Do you want to help them?"

Bucky thought about it, thumb brushing Steve's knuckles. Did he want to help bring down HYDRA? Did he want to use everything he knew—and he knew so much about HYDRA and how they operated, where they were located all over the world—to end the people who'd taken his life away, who'd made him into this? "Yes."

"Then we should do it."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. It's a future for you, Bucky. Something good." He squeezed Bucky's hand again and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. Eventually, Steve said, "They can't break the soul-chain."

"Good," he said, sounding satisfied.

"Bucky?"

He wasn't sure how to explain, how to put it into words that Steve could understand. "Being Bound to you doesn't feel like being Bound to anyone from HYDRA. They wanted to use me, they wanted me to kill for them. You just want me to be safe and free. I shouldn't be able to feel that, but I think I can. Having it, like I said last night, it feels _good,_ like, like you're pouring warmth straight into my soul. And I know you don't like the idea that you can control me. But I know you never would. And knowing you did it for me, when I know how much it cost you, just because I needed you to..." He trailed off as he suddenly realised something.

Realised what the feeling was.

It _wasn't_ the Bond. It wasn't anything to do with the Bond. Feelings didn't come through the Bond. It didn't work like that. Thank god, because if it did he would have been infected with Pierce and every other HYDRA handler he'd been Bound to throughout the years.

This was something different. This was.

Oh. _Oh._

"Bucky?" Steve sounded worried, twisted in his arms to look up at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, wonderingly. "I just." He stopped. "Remember how I said I wasn't sure if I could love you back? That I didn't know if they'd left me that?"

"Yes," Steve replied, confusion edging out the worry.

"I can. They did."

"Bucky?"

"I do."

" _Bucky_?"

"I love you."

"Are you sure it’s not the Bond?" His face was a study of hope and elation, only the faintest hint of worry left.

"I'm sure. It doesn't work like that. It's just you."

"How does it feel?" he asked with a slow smile.

"Good. It feels good. Really good."

Steve's smile grew huge and bright and his eyes were almost glowing, they were so blue. Bucky's heart lurched. _Oh._ "Steve?"

"Yeah, Bucky?"

"It, uh, I think it might be more complicated than that."

For one second, Steve was confused, brows drawn down as he tried to puzzle it out, then his eyes went wide as he realised what Bucky was talking about. He smiled gently. "But you're not sure."

Bucky shook his head. Steve rested one hand over his heart. "It's all right. Don't worry too much about it. Just relax and let it sort itself out."

"If it was more, that would be okay?"

"That would be okay." There was something in Steve's smile that said it would be more than okay and Bucky wondered how long Steve had felt it, had felt _more_ than just love. As if any sort of love could be ever be only _just._ Steve's hand over his heart was warm, he could feel each of his fingers like a point of heat, and his heart lurched again, like it was trying to reach Steve. "It's also okay if it's not. Whatever you want."

"What I want is this," he said and pulled Steve into a hug, marvelling at _loving him_ , when he hadn't thought that was something he could even feel. Everything else, everything complicated, could wait. _Let it sort itself out_.

Steve chuckled and wound his arms around Bucky. "Going to be tough to take, but I guess I'll manage."

 

* * *

 

They moved into their new quarters and they were nothing like a cell. Objectively, they were plain. Comparatively—with the room in HYDRA's compound as the basis—they were beautiful. Bucky spent time wandering around, touching things or staring out the window. The view wasn't spectacular, but it was sunlight and sky and weather. The door locked from the inside. There was a television and a fridge and a couch and fresh food. Steve cooked for them, teaching Bucky as he went, and Bucky was learning the joys of different flavours and textures.

It was sometimes overwhelming. It was always amazing. Steve's fingers constantly itched to draw him. He constantly itched to kiss him. He resisted the latter urge. He didn't even try to resist the former.

Hill arranged for Steve to talk to one of SHIELD's magic users, one who knew a bit about Bonding, a bit about soul-chains, who'd studied the amulet. It took three days for her to return to SHIELD HQ. She turned up with the man from the bridge.

"Hawkeye," Bucky greeted him—tense, but not unreasonably so.

Hawkeye gave Bucky a long, thoughtful look. "Thanks for not killing me."

Bucky jerked his head at Steve. "Thank him. He's the reason I didn't have to."

"So I've heard. Thanks, Rogers."

Steve looked back and forth between them, rolled his eyes, and said, "Happy to help."

The corner of Hawkeye's mouth ticked up and he leaned on the wall next to the door, arms folded. "This is Agent Peabody," he said, gesturing at the young woman he'd brought with him. She was wearing a standard SHIELD uniform, with the tiny unicorn patch under the eagle that designated a magic user, and her eyes were jumping back and forth between Bucky and Steve.

"Hi," Steve said. "Thanks for coming." Bucky nodded at her.

"I was ordered to," Agent Peabody replied, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. Steve's eyebrows rose. Hawkeye's drew down. "The Deputy-Director said you wanted to talk to me about the soul-chain you Bound him with." She nodded at Bucky and her eyes softened.

"Yes, I do." She wasn't overtly hostile, but Steve could tell she didn't approve. He realised he didn't care, as long as she told him what he needed to know. Bucky moved to stand behind him, leaning over the back of the couch. "I know the soul-chain lets me control him." Talking about it in bald terms, like he wasn't talking about controlling Bucky, made him feel cold, but he needed to know. If he didn't know, there was too much chance he could get it wrong, do something to Bucky by mistake. "How does it work?"

"Do you want the technical details or the practical?"

"The practical."

"It's simple. If you tell him to do something, he has to do it." At Steve's look, she shifted from foot to foot and reluctantly added, "It's about will more than words. It's about intent. You have to want him to obey you when you order him to do something. You _can't_ use it by accident, you have to _want_ to control him." Her lips thinned. "So if you were hoping to set that up as an excuse, it won't work."

Hawkeye pushed off the wall. "Agent Peabody."

"No."

"Peabody!"

"No, this is not okay. A soul-chain is vile, there's a reason every school of magic erased it from its books, and we're standing here, telling him," Agent Peabody shot a glare at Steve, "how to use it. On someone who's helpless. I'm not going to be a party to this."

Steve shot to his feet. "Bucky is _not_ helpless. He's survived things even _thinking_ about would drop you in your tracks."

"And now he has to survive you."

It was almost the Soldier who stalked around the couch, metal plates of his arm realigning as his fingers curled into a fist, eyes cold as he planted himself between Agent Peabody and Steve. "It's time for you to go."

She stumbled backwards, eyes wide, whites showing around the edges, hand over her mouth. Hawkeye was tense, but he didn't move towards Bucky. Simply said, "Agent Peabody, wait in the hall. Now." She went, backing towards the door, eyes never leaving Bucky.

Steve gently pressed his fingers to Bucky's arm. Bucky took a deep breath, let it out slowly and relaxed. Steve shot Hawkeye a challenging look. "You have something to say?"

"Nope. I know what someone looking to control you feels like." He met Steve's eyes. "This isn't it. I'm not worried. You wouldn't do that to him."

"I know that," Bucky said, settling on the arm of the couch and pulling Steve down to sit next to him. "You know that. Probably people on other planets know that, but _he_ still worries."

Steve scowled, but there was no heat in it. "If you're finished?" Bucky shrugged. Smiling faintly, Hawkeye gave them a lazy salute and left.

"You okay?" Bucky asked.

Steve let his head fall to rest against the back of the couch, looking up at Bucky. "I don't know. What she said, a lot of people are going to think that way."

"Maybe they are, but we both know better. _I_ know better."

" _How_ do you know?"

Bucky shifted sideways on the arm of the couch and cupped Steve's face gently between his hands, metal fingers cool against Steve's skin. "I trust you. You would never hurt me. And now you know you can't use it accidentally you can stop worrying."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I've got no doubts. I know you'd never use it. I know I'm always safe with you."

"Then I'm okay."

Bucky slowly smiled, then he leaned down, brushed a kiss across the top of Steve's head, and rolled to his feet, walking into the kitchen.

Steve stared after him, heart speeding up, eyes wide and hopeful. Wondering if maybe things were sorting themselves out.


	13. Chapter 13

Bucky agreed to help SHIELD take down HYDRA. He and Steve talked about it, asked Hill some questions—or Steve did, Bucky wasn't sure what questions he should be asking—but it was inevitable. They both wanted to end HYDRA and neither of them had any other life to go to. His agreement came on two conditions: SHIELD took them both on as consultants—they came as a pair, as a package, because he knew he couldn't do it without Steve—and Bucky never had to kill.

SHIELD agreed to his conditions. Their quarters at SHIELD HQ were theirs to keep. Not forever. There was an apartment, a sometime safehouse Hill thought would be good for them. It wasn’t currently available and—as she confessed one night, exhausted in a way Bucky had never seen her—she didn't think Bucky was ready yet.

He made her a cup of coffee and told her he agreed. He wasn't sure which surprised her more.

Bucky kept in training because the world was what it was, HYDRA still existed, and he might someday have to protect Steve. He couldn't afford to get rusty, to lose all those terrible skills HYDRA had given him, no matter how determined he was not to use them anymore.

 

* * *

 

No one wanted to believe there were more HYDRA plants inside SHIELD. Deputy-Director Hill and the Black Widow, who Bucky learned was named Agent Romanoff, were the only ones who didn't seem surprised.

It took weeks to ferret them out, and Bucky wasn't certain they found everyone, but it was all they could do. Steve proved valuable, because Bucky mostly didn't know names, but he did know what they looked like. Steve could pick people from SHIELD's databases based on Bucky's descriptions, his artist's eye sharp and precise, the two of them working together smooth and fast. Hill was pleased, seemed surprised that Steve had more to offer than just a crutch for Bucky.

It wasn't the last time SHIELD saw Steve's value. They discovered he had a gift for planning, for tactics, which took everyone by surprise, including Steve. _Almost_ everyone; Bucky wasn't surprised, because he remembered Steve's map.

The first hint of his gift showed itself on a flight to Romania. Bucky knew HYDRA had been burrowed in at the base of the Fagaras Mountains. Satellite photos, intelligence reports, SHIELD agent briefings, maps old and new, were spread on a table in front of them. They'd been working through them, Agent Romanoff pulling information out of Bucky he didn't know he had. Steve was watching and listening intently, leaning against Bucky's shoulder, taking everything in.

When they were done, Steve had pulled the maps closer, tracing them with a finger, pulled the satellite photos over, flipped through a SHIELD agent's report. He'd frowned over a section, flipped back to the maps, nodded to himself. "Agent Romanoff, can I ask a question?"

"If it's can we stop for souvenirs, the answer is no." She didn't say it unkindly, exactly, but there was a definite air of _don't bother me, I don't have time to talk to baggage_. Because that's how she viewed Steve, Bucky thought. As baggage, something to be hauled around whenever they needed Bucky.

Steve's chin went up, his shoulders went back, but he took a deep breath and his temper held. "No, I wanted to ask why you're planning on going in where you are, when there's a _better_ approach here." He turned the map around and tapped it. "One that's not going to leave you so exposed."

One eyebrow rose, razor sharp and challenging. She exchanged a look with the leader of the STRIKE team, who shrugged. Impatiently, she moved to stand next to Steve. "Show me," she said, obviously expecting nothing.

Steve showed her. It didn't take more than a few minutes for her to get interested, for her attitude to change, because it _was_ a better approach and it was one no one else had seen.

It had taken putting together a throw away comment in one of the low-level agent's reports—a brief recounting of the agent's casual conversation with a local goat-herder's son—with the satellite photos and the old hand-drawn maps, the ones no one else had bothered to look at too closely. "Maybe I've just got an affinity for goats," Steve muttered as plans were reworked. Bucky had to bury his face in Steve's shoulder to smother his laugh. To hide his pride.

After that, Agent Romanoff started seeking Steve out. He wasn't sure what to make of it at first, Bucky knew. But she started teaching him. Training him. Steve would never be able to do what she could do, what Bucky could do, with their bodies, but his mind was a different story. She'd seen a glimpse of his potential and decided it wasn't going to be wasted.

 

* * *

 

SHIELD wasn't always easy. The agents they worked with were usually handpicked by Hill or Romanoff. It meant they either didn't have a problem with Steve or Bucky or, if they did, they were smart enough and clever enough to keep it to themselves.

 _Usually_ wasn't _always_. Sometimes the agents had a problem with Bucky. Sometimes with Steve. To Bucky's surprise, a lot more people had a problem with Steve. Apparently being a vicious assassin and, as it turned out, bogeyman of the international espionage community wasn't anywhere near as bad as having Bound someone with a soul-chain. As a rule, Steve either ignored it or flayed a verbal strip off them, sarcasm his weapon of choice—he was learning from Agent Romanoff that sometimes it was better to fight with your tongue and keep your fists in your pocket.

The day a senior agent showed up at a briefing openly wearing anti-black magic charms, one of which he pointedly waved at Steve from across the table, would have been a day to test Steve's resolve. Would have, except Bucky had seen them first, seen the rest of the room react in horror.

The next thing he knew, Steve was standing in front of him, hands gentle on his face, voice soft in his ears.

The huge, heavy table had been thrown against the wall. The senior agent was cowering in a corner. There were guns, not quite trained on him, more pointed _near_ him, no one wanting to escalate what Steve seemed to have in hand.

It hadn't been the Blood. Bucky didn't think it had been the Soldier, not entirely. It had been anger, hot and fierce, at someone treating Steve like that, someone thinking those things about him and showing it so blatantly, like no one was going to care.

There wasn't a repeat and they never saw that agent again.

Even with the Table Incident—as the gossip that regularly ripped through SHIELD like a plague had christened it—of the two of them, it wasn't _Bucky_ people were most wary of. No, that was Steve, thanks to an incident on a flight to Brazil. Hill had needed Bucky with boots on the ground to advise, had sent him down with a STRIKE team and some senior agents.

Bucky didn't go anywhere without Steve, who was sitting by his side. The STRIKE team leader tilted his head at Steve. "You're Rogers, right?"

Steve raised an eyebrow at the question. Bucky had to admit it was justified, because who else would he be? "Yeah. You are?"

"Rollins. Jack Rollins." He nodded. "Wanted to tell you: you did a good thing. I know a lot of the," he glanced towards the cockpit, making sure no one senior was paying attention to them, "bleeding hearts, the magicians and their lot, have been giving you shit, but you made the right call. You can't have an assassin like that running around out of control." He was talking like Bucky wasn't even there. Like he couldn't hear what was being said. Steve stiffened. Bucky felt tension spiral down his own spine, felt the Blood rise, felt the Soldier waiting. Not at what was being said about _him_ —he didn't care, not from people like this—he was worried about what Steve would do. "And it lets us use what he knows. So don't listen to them. You saw what you had to do and you did it. Got him under control and kept him there. Good job."

Silence fell as Steve held Rollin's gaze, saying nothing, face empty, eyes cold. He reminded Bucky of the Soldier. The STRIKE team members shifted uneasily. Bucky went still, ready to move if he needed to, because Rollins was easily Bucky's size, armed and trained and surrounded by allies. Steve had a heart and courage as huge as the world but it didn't change the fact that, physically, he was small compared to the rest of the people in the quinjet.

Not that he cared. Not that, Bucky suspected, he noticed.

Steve pushed to his feet and walked slowly across the quinjet, eyes never leaving Rollins'. He leaned down and spoke quietly in his ear. Bucky couldn't make out the words. From the way the rest of the STRIKE team was leaning in, he guessed they couldn't either. Rollins went pale. Steve straightened, met his eyes again. "Understood?"

Rollins nodded once, looking like a man who'd swallowed something bitter, and Steve's mouth flattened into a smile laced with contempt. He returned to Bucky's side and deliberately reached for his hand, folding his fingers over Bucky's.

Bucky didn't know what Steve had said. Steve wouldn't tell him. But it was the last time anyone said _anything_ against Bucky, at least in Steve's presence.

 

* * *

 

It was the early afternoon and Bucky was lying on the couch, relaxed and warm in a sunbeam, reading a briefing from Hill. He looked up as Steve opened the door to their quarters, closed it, then leaned against it. He looked dazed.

"Steve?"

Steve blinked at him.

Bucky dropped the briefing on the floor and pushed to his feet, walking over to stand in front of him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just." He shook his head and blinked again.  "Agent Romanoff?"

"Yes," he replied cautiously and curled his hand around the back of Steve's neck, felt Steve relax under his touch.

Steve smiled up at him. "She told me to call her Natasha."

"Steve." Bucky snorted a laugh. "I thought something was _wrong_."

"Hey, it's a big deal! I've never heard anyone but Agent Barton call her that." He shrugged. "I guess she's happy with how I'm doing."

"Of course she is," he said. "Steve, of course she is. You're amazing."

Steve scoffed and Bucky gently squeezed the back of his neck. Bucky only knew so much. Eventually, SHIELD wouldn't need him anymore. Someday _Steve_ would be the one SHIELD would value, the one SHIELD would want, and Bucky was going to be the baggage.

He was completely okay with that.

 

* * *

 

Hill came to tell them the apartment was ready if they wanted it. Bucky wasn't completely sure he _was_ ready to live out in the world. The Blood was always waiting and he didn't know if he knew how. But Steve leaned into his side: he could feel the Bond, could feel the warm spot under his heart he knew was Steve, helping him stand against the Blood. He knew he'd never be alone. He said yes.

The apartment was in the top corner of a block of four. Bucky knew, they both knew, given it had sometimes been a SHIELD safehouse, that the people living around them were probably all SHIELD, but they didn't care. It was old, worn and soft: golden wooden floors and cream walls, rag rugs and second-hand furniture. It was an apartment that had lived a life before they arrived. There was something comforting about that, like even if _Bucky_ wasn't sure what to do, the apartment would know and would get him through.

Unlike their quarters at SHIELD it had two bedrooms.

They didn't care about that, either.

They always slept together. Bucky didn't think he'd be able to sleep without Steve, didn't want to try, and he was pretty sure Steve felt the same. Sometimes he wondered if was strange that they slept together when they weren't _together_. When he knew Steve was maybe in love with him, when he still didn't know what this feeling he had for Steve was, exactly.

But Steve didn't seem to think it was strange. When they'd moved in, he hadn't hesitated, hadn't even asked, had just moved both of their things into the larger bedroom, like it wasn't a question.

Bucky never wanted to stop. Bucky needed him. Needed Steve to curl around him late at night when Bucky couldn't sleep, when he woke up in a cold sweat. Needed Steve to lie quietly beside him, not touching him when he couldn't quite bear to be touched. Needed him to let Bucky wrap him up tight, so not one bit of Steve could be seen, Bucky holding onto him like his life depended on it.

Bucky, when he let himself think about it, knew it wasn't normal, but he also knew nothing about them could ever be normal. It was good, it was _them_ , it was happiness and safety, and that was better than normal.

 

* * *

 

It was late, so late it was practically early. Bucky wasn't sure what woke him up. Pale moonlight was streaming in through the corner of the window, sneaking in around the curtain and illuminating Steve's pale skin. Steve was sprawled over the top of him, one sharp elbow digging into his kidney.

On second thought, Bucky was pretty sure he knew _exactly_ what had woken him up.

He shifted sideways, trying to wriggle his kidney to safety. Steve scowled in his sleep, elbowing Bucky, making his displeasure at being moved very clear. Amused, Bucky tried again. Steve frowned and poked him.

He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Moving quickly, he wrapped his arms tightly around Steve, rolled them both over, and pulled Steve into the curve of his body, so his back was tucked tight against Bucky's chest. It wasn't quite fast enough to avoid some discontented grumbling and another elbow, but as soon as Bucky snuggled him close, settled his chin on Steve's hair, Steve gave a long sigh and his body went completely limp, relaxing against Bucky.

A wave of warm contentment spread through him. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of Steve's head, had the urge to kiss his shoulder, to bury his face in Steve's neck and breathe him in.

_Let everything sort itself out._

Oh.

So this was what it felt like when everything sorted itself out.

He was in love with Steve.

It wasn't complicated after all.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Steve was sitting on the kitchen counter, drinking his coffee, sleepy and sun-warmed from the light coming in the window.

Bucky was sitting at the table, _not_ drinking his coffee, and he couldn't keep his eyes off Steve. His heart beat a little faster. "Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

The mug paused half-way to Steve's mouth and he slowly lowered it, looking searchingly at Bucky. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him. He set the mug on the counter, smiling faintly. "Of course you can."

He almost tripped over his own feet, assassin's grace lost in sudden nervousness. Steve held out his hand and Bucky took it, sliding his fingers through Steve's. Steve shifted his knees apart and Bucky stepped between them. Steve's eyes were serious, but Bucky could see hope flaring in their depths, hope and something he knew was love. Delicately, carefully, he touched the tips of his metal fingers to Steve's cheek and dipped his head to press his lips to Steve's. It was tentative at first, Bucky unsure, and Steve didn't push, let Bucky set the pace and Bucky found himself falling into it, leaning into the kiss as Steve kissed him back, needing more. He was breathless when he lifted his head.

Steve's eyes were glowing. "You can kiss me whenever you want," he said softly. "You don't have to ask." He brushed his thumb over Bucky's bottom lip. "Or you can, if that's what you want to do."

Bucky caught his hand and brought it back to his mouth, kissed his thumb. Kissed his other fingers. "I think sometimes I'm going to want to ask. And sometimes I'm going to want to surprise you. Sound okay?"

"Sounds perfect. Hey, Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"Hell yes."

Steve gently pulled his hand free to curl it around the back of Bucky's neck, letting his fingers tangle in Bucky's hair, and kissed him, long and slow and gentle, sending sparks of awareness down his spine. He pressed closer, wrapped his metal arm around Steve's waist, holding him tight. Curls of warmth simmered through him as Steve gently nipped his bottom lip before he pulled back. "Does this mean it sorted itself out?"

Bucky smiled. "Yes."

"Complicated?"

"Not really."

"No?"

"I love you. I'm in love with you." Bucky kissed him firmly. "It's not complicated at all."

Steve grinned. "I'm in love with you, too. In case you were wondering."

"I know," he said with a smile. "I've known for a while." Steve huffed and Bucky's smile got wider. "But I do need to know something."

"Anything."

"We don't have to stop sleeping together, do we?"

"No, Bucky," he said firmly, chin up, shoulders back, every inch the stubborn Steve Bucky had learned not to argue with. "Never."

"Even if it takes me a while to manage more than kissing?" he asked, hating the hint of uncertainty that crept into his voice.

"Bucky." Steve pressed his hand over Bucky's heart, smiling softly up at him, voice brimming with warmth. "I love you. I love you anyway you want me. If you only want kissing, that's what I want. If you want more, I'm there. If you don't, I'm good with that. I want _you_. How doesn't matter."

"I love you." He should have known Steve would say that. He cupped Steve's cheek with his metal hand, thumb brushing over his skin as he kissed him, slow and deep, Steve leaning into the kiss to return it enthusiastically. Steve was warm against him, he could feel Steve in the spot under his heart, could feel him in his soul where the Bond lived, and something settled into place inside him, something _right_. Steve's smile was wide and bright when he pulled back and he looped his arms around Bucky's waist. "Let's start with kissing." Bucky knew his own smile was just as wide and just as bright as he rested his forehead against Steve's. "And see where we end up."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blood (FanArt)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10542030) by [AyaroS92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyaroS92/pseuds/AyaroS92)
  * [Blood (FanArt)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10542030) by [AyaroS92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyaroS92/pseuds/AyaroS92)




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